“No? That’s it?” he scoffs. I get the sense he’s not rejected often, and I want to make him sweat it out a bit more, but…
“No, you won’t pay. I’ll go, but I’ll pay for myself. Lunch Saturday. Do you have your phone?”
That smug smile is back and I find myself regretting my decision already, but it’s my own fault. He pulls his phone from his back pocket and hands it to me, and I enter my number.
“Reese Camden,” I say as I hand it back to him. As if he has seven other Reeses in his contacts already. “Text me and we’ll pick a time and place.”
“No need to beg, now,” Benny teases, leaning against the counter and folding those annoyingly nice arms over his chest.
I turn on a heel and start to leave the kitchen without another word.
“Looking forward to it!” he calls after me, and I feel my frown deepen. That sure makes one of us, bud.
I’m feeling some semblance of calm as I walk to meet Benny on Saturday. I didn’t see him at the office yesterday, but he texted last night suggesting a place close enough to the Seattle U dorm where I’m renting a room for the summer that I suspect he might be staying on campus, too. I was happy to agree this time, intimidated as ever by the what-do-I-feel-like-eating decision in a city where I don’t know any restaurants.
I enter through the café’s heavy glass door and a quick scan tells me that Benny isn’t here yet. I hate to awkwardly hang around, pretending to look at stuff on my phone, so I go ahead and ask for a table for two. The hostess seats me by the window. I pull out the sketch pad and pencils that I always carry with me, hoping to play around while I wait, but something moves in my peripheral vision less than a minute later. I look up to find I have the perfect view of Benny jogging across the street my way.
I’m not a fan of the dropping feeling in my stomach whenI see him, like I’m on a roller coaster that’s about to plummet. He’s in a T-shirt and jeans again, the former of which clings to his broad chest and biceps. Seriously, they make shirts in bigger sizes. He has to know what he’s doing. His head is covered again with a backward baseball cap, just the tiniest glimpse of dark hair peeking out in front. But it’s probably his face more than anything. The face that seems to be in an easy perma-smile, usually one-sided, often with dimples. Dark eyes shadowed with unfairly long lashes.
I shove these observations out of my mind and my drawing stuff back into my bag as he enters the restaurant, and try to not notice the way his face starts doing that smoldering thing when he catches sight of me.
Oh, he is trouble.
But this is a fact-finding mission only. Information gathering. We are not friends. For some reason, my idiot body doesn’t get the memo and decides to stand up when he approaches the table, meaning it now looks like I expect to be greeted somehow. I almost sit right back down again, but I feel like that would be weirder, so I stand there and hope he decides how to deal with my absurdity.
When Benny gets close, he starts to raise his arms the slightest amount and I see the hesitation on his face. Taking pity since I put us in this situation, I mimic the action and lean closer. The result is a loose, awkward half hug like we’re two middle schoolers at church camp trying to leave room for Jesus.
“Hey, Reese,” he says smoothly, giving me a wink as we both take our seats. The hug wasdefinitelya mistake.
“Hey, how are you?” I reply in a monotone, trying to look totally unimpressed by him and very occupied with spreading my napkin across my lap.
“Can’t complain. My neighbor—who I’m convinced must be a bullfighter who practices in his room, that’s the only way he could possibly make that much noise—he must’ve been out last night. I slept like a baby for the first time since I’ve been here. How about you?”
“Fine,” I say curtly. “Are you in Seattle U summer housing, too? I saw you walking here from the same direction.”
Benny smiles. “The very same. Wait—are you my bullfighting neighbor?”
I give him a withering look, daring to look his stupid handsomeness in the eye again. “Doubtful. There was as much noise coming from my room last night as there usually is.” I hear every which way he could run with that sentence and choke on my own spit. “Um, I mean, which is to say, very little noise. Because I’m quiet. And I live alone.”
Benny presses his lips together and his eyes practically glitter, one eyebrow rising in a way that could mean a lot of things. Good gravy, can Ipleasepull it together?
Before I can say or do anything else moronic, the waiter shows up to take our orders. Instinctively, I say, “Sweet tea, please.”
The waiter—as they always do on this side of the country—starts in on the standard, “We just have unsweetened, but I can bring you some sug—”
“Just water, actually. Thanks.”
Benny holds up two fingers and he and the guy exchange nods before the latter goes to get our drinks. Across the table, Benny gives me a curious look.
“Not into self-serve sweetening, Reese’s Cup?”
I shoot him another stern glance at the return of the nickname and start to fiddle with my silverware roll. “It’s not the same as sweet tea.”
He folds his bulky arms across his chest. I won’t give him the satisfaction of staring, but I’m legitimately fascinated that he’s able to keep up this body type while working in a kitchen. He’s probably one of those guys who spends all his free time at the gym, lifting weights in front of the mirror, taking “progress” selfies. I smirk at the thought.
“Isn’t it? Tea plus sugar equals…”
I let out a sigh. “It’s like people outside the South don’t understand how solubility works, I swear. With sweet tea, sugar is part of the preparation while it’s still hot, so it gets all good and blended. Now, if he brought me a cup of what y’all call ‘iced tea’ and a couple packets of sugar, I’d have to stir for half the lunch to dissolve it, at which point it isn’t even gonna taste the sameandI’ll have wasted all that time and effort. Thank you kindly, but pass.”
