Page 23 of And Now, Back to You

“You did?”

“I did.”

“How do you know what I like?”

The barest hint of amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes, and my stomach flips over itself. I bet he’s devastating when he smiles. “I ordered whatever had the most sprinkles,” he deadpans.

Okay, fair enough.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t even like sprinkles.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

“What did you order?” I poke at his arm. “Oat Bran? Fruitcake? Steel-cut oatmeal mixed with water?”

His mouth twitches. “I ordered a cruffin.”

“That’s a surprisingly whimsical decision, Jackson.”

“I can be whimsical.”

“Yeah, okay,” I snort, trying to situate myself on the stool so I don’t flip right off. With my luck, I probably will and I’ll take him down with me. Break off the other side of his glasses so they’re even.

“I was trying to be nice, Delilah. Not insult you.”

“You’ve left mean Post-it notes on my car window for almost two years, Jackson. Forgive me if I’m a little suspicious.”

He looks confused. “They weren’t mean.”

I shrug. “A little bit.”

He frowns. “I never meant to be mean, Delilah.”

“Could have fooled me.”

The most delicious shade of pink climbs either side of his neck, right above the collar of his sweater. “Well, I wouldn’t have to leave you notes if you just parked within the lines.”

“I do park within the lines.”

“Crooked. You park crooked, and I can’t park in the space next to you with your bumper hanging out.”

“I drive a Volkswagen Beetle. It’s physically impossible for the bumper to hang out.” I tilt my head to the side. “There are always a ton of spots. Why do you need to park in the space next to mine?”

“This isn’t—” Jackson pinches his nose, then gives me a long-suffering look. “Can we start over, please? Talk about something that isn’t a parking space?”

“Fine,” I sniff. I don’t know what it is about Jackson that immediately gets me riled up and ready to brawl. It’s out of character for me, arguing over something as trivial as a parking space. I decide to extend a peace offering. “Thank you for ordering me the sprinkles.”

“You’re welcome.” He rubs two fingers across his forehead. “I’m sorry about the notes. You’re right. They were mean. I think you caught me at a bad time.”

I stare at him. “For two years?”

His smile is subdued. “I’ll do better.” He seems to brace himself. “In the spirit of that . . . you were right about the European model.”

“What?”

His eyes cut in my direction. “You were right about the European model,” he repeats, his voice stronger. “It was a more accurate representation of the data.”

A loud laugh bursts out of me.