“But ... don’t you want to look over?” I ask, totally confused.
“I did.”
“For a millisecond?”
“It was enough.”
“Jay,” I say his name like my mom says mine when she knows I’m lying.
“Look,” he says, his eyes on me. “I saw the city; it was a city, and now I’m going back down. Besides, I’m pretty sure you owe me coffee for getting you up here at all.”
“I do?”
“Yep. It’s the polite thing to do.”
I let out a long breath. On the one hand, I could just go home and rest my shame-filled heart. I failed; I should bask in my failure. On the other hand, coffee with a stranger is definitely out of my comfort zone, and I’d actually be taking a chance like Elena wanted me to. Yet, on the other hand (I have three hands in this scenario), what if behind those amazing chocolate eyes lays the heart of a serial killer? He doesn’t really seem the type, but that’s the thing about serial killers.
“Okay,” I say. “But only if you’re not a serial killer.”
“I am,” he replies. “But only on Tuesdays.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Thank goodness it’s Saturday.”
