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He finally notices me, and he stops in his tracks. “Kay?” he whispers.
I’m not sure why he’s looking at me like that, like I’m a hallucination—although it could be because I’ve dyed my hair bright red. Like, flaming red.
But then, as I take in his haggard face and bloodshot eyes, I know I was right: something’s wrong.
“Hi,” I say and smile. I pull the package from my purse and extend it toward him. “I brought you something.”
He blinks at the package, then up at me. In his eyes, confusion wars with curiosity and something else, something bright and new. “For me?”
Since he’s not reaching for it, I close the distance between us and thrust it into his chest. “For you, yes.”
Finally he takes it. He licks his lips and I bite mine. This boy’s too sexy for his own good, and he doesn’t even seem to notice. He tears at the paper slowly, strong hands a little clumsy, as if he hasn’t done this often.
He stops and stares at my gift. I see the corners of his pretty mouth curve up, and then he’s grinning widely.
“Holy shit,” he mutters and shakes his head.
“I baked it and decorated it,” I say.
The muffin is pretty, if I say so myself. The frosting is blue, and there’s a red cherry on top.
“Blue for Mr. Blue,” I whisper.
“What?” He pales, and I wonder why. “What did you just call me?”
“Blue.” I tilt my head to the side, trying to solve his new puzzle. “Blue hair, blue eyes. Blue. Duh.”
He’s utterly still for a long moment, two red spots on his cheek bones, bright in his white face.
“What’s the matter?” I’m worried I put my foot in my mouth somehow. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” But he won’t look at me. “Why?”
The roughness in his voice makes my chest go tight. “Why what?”
“This.” He still won’t look at me as he lifts the muffin. “Why?”
“Do I need a reason?” I shrug, because, hey.
He finally looks up, and I can’t read his face, although his smile lingers, faint. “You made me a muffin for no reason?”
Put that way… “I didn’t say that. You seem stressed out these days. So I made it for you.”
He swallows. The shop has faded around us, the sounds, the smells, the voices. It’s just him, blue against blue against blue, the muffin frosting, his hair, his eyes. His smile.
“What can I give you back?” he whispers, and it’s almost as if he’s talking to himself.
“Nothing,” I reply anyway. Then again… There is something I want. “But you could let me see.”
“See what?”
“Your palm.”
Confusion tightens his brow, but when I reach for his hand, he lets me take it. Large, strong, the backside dotted with light freckles. When I turn it over, there’s a line of black ink on his thumb.
/> So warm. His palm is rough when I run my fingers over it, its lines deep.
“Why are you really here?” he breathes.
