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“How do you know that’s what you’d prefer? You don
’t even know what’s in the Ethan Special.”
Judging from his behavior, I’m thinking grass of the non-wheat variety. And since this is my first day, I’m not exactly prepared to risk it, no matter how hot he is. “I don’t have to know what’s in it to know that I’m in the mood for—” I glance back at the menu. “A refreshing blend of strawberries, bananas, pineapple juice, and orange sherbet. None of which appear to be in the drink you just made.”
“This drink has strawberries in it. Seven, to be exact.”
Thirty-eight blueberries and seven strawberries. Is this guy for real? There’s a part of me that’s intrigued despite myself, but I’m not about to let him see that. So I just look down my nose at him and answer, “One out of four ingredients is not what I would call a perfect match.”
“Is that important to you?” he asks, one dark eyebrow raised. “That things match up perfectly?”
Absolutely. I’m obsessive about it, really, making sure things fit exactly where they’re supposed to. Making sure the i’s are all dotted and the t’s are all crossed and the rules have all been followed. Tori calls me OCD, but it’s not like that. It’s not the routine of doing something a certain way that appeals to me. It’s the order of the end result that I crave, the knowledge that things are exactly as they should be.
And while I’m aware that sounds a little crazy, it’s actually what’s kept me sane the last six years. Ever since Brandon—
I slam that door shut before the memories leak out from where I’ve buried them. No way am I going to think about him again ever, let alone on what is the best day I’ve had in a very long time. No, I’m going to focus on keeping things simple. Orderly. Easy. After all, I’m not one to rock the boat just to see what falls out.
I don’t tell any of this to him, of course. Instead, I raise one of my own brows and say, “You’re the one who counts the blueberries in his drink. All I’m trying to do is get what I ordered sometime before the dinner rush. Which, incidentally, starts in”—I make a show of glancing at my watch—“approximately four hours.”
“So, we’ve got plenty of time then. Why don’t you pull up a bar stool and we’ll get to know each other a little? I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”
The guy next to him—the trainee—makes a choked little sound in the back of his throat. But he doesn’t say anything, just takes a drink from the second Ethan Special cup, so I don’t bother looking over at him. Especially since every instinct I have is screaming at me to keep my eyes on the guy in front of me. That looking away would be akin to admitting a defeat I am suddenly hell-bent on avoiding.
“Well, that makes one of us. I, however, have a meeting in fifteen minutes that I can’t be late for.”
“Hmm. That certainly puts you at a disadvantage then, doesn’t it?”
“Why? Because I have a job that actually requires me to perform the duties that are in my job description?”
This time the noise the trainee makes sounds somewhere between a cat hacking up a furball and a hyena in its death throes. “Are you okay?” I finally demand, still not taking my eyes off his trainer. “Because, frankly, I’m getting concerned.”
He makes the sound again, then slaps his chest hard before taking another long sip from his drink. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Glad to hear it. I was beginning to think he’d poisoned you.”
“I never poison anyone on the first day. The second day, however, is an entirely different story.”
“I wouldn’t go around admitting that to anyone. It makes you—and Frost Industries—culpable if anyone ever suffers so much as a mild case of food poisoning.”
He steps back then, looks me over from top to toes. “God. You’re one of the lawyers, aren’t you?”
I might have been excited that it was that obvious, except he definitely doesn’t make it sound like a compliment. Which, I admit, gets my hackles up even more. “Is that a problem?”
Before he can answer, someone comes up behind me and orders a Hawaiian Sunrise. The trainer chats easily with him even as he begins scooping ingredients into a blender. Less than ninety seconds later, he puts a beautiful, pinkish orange smoothie on the counter. The guy runs his badge through the scanner, grabs his drink, and then heads off with a wave.
I watch the whole thing go down, then turn to him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Are. You. Freaking. Kidding. Me?”
He does an admirable job of looking confused. “Is something wrong?”
“You just gave him my drink!”
“No. I just gave him his drink.” He taps the cup in front of me. “That’s your drink.”
I’m not even sure what I’m feeling at this point. Annoyance, definitely. Shock, probably. Amusement? Strangely enough, I think there’s some of that going on, too. This guy is so brash, so bold, so in-my-face that I can’t help being impressed. Even as I’m determined to put him in his place.
“Are you always this insufferable?” I demand.
“Only when I’m right.”
