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“What in the hell are you doing here?” I asked, pointing my finger at him in a feeble attempt at intimidation. It was hard to make your point when there were icing flakes stuck to your fingertips.
“Hello to you too, Pop Rock. Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?” He used one long finger to push the glasses down the bridge of his nose before crossing his arms and looking at the scatter of plates on the table.
“I haven’t decided yet. Is your future so bright, you have to wear shades?”
He scoffed, and I added another mark on the things-that-pissed-me-off-about-Simon list. The sound he made was pretentious and sexy. Okay, it was more sexy than pretentious. It was one of those infuriating man sounds you loved to hate because it made everything south of your stomach clench.
“Maybe. The fuck is going on with all of this?” He sat across from me, gesturing to the plates and spreading his legs wide underneath the table to knock against my thigh.
“I don’t like the fillings.”
“I’m sorry, what?” he said, clutching a hand on his heart and laying his sunglasses beside him. He looked away from the window and rubbed his eyes, blinking like he needed a minute to adjust to the light.
His hair looked more platinum than blond in the daylight and I shook my head, wondering how much money he spent on his outfit alone.
Not that I had any room to talk. My heel collection could put any man to shame, but something about him irked me. Like he was trying too hard to be casual, instead of owning that he liked to dress expensive. He pinned me with a look, waiting for me to answer, and crossed his arms, making his forearms bunch and strain against the black shirt cuffed to his elbows. Everything about him looked arrogant and pompous. I wanted to punch him straight in the junk, then kiss him until his lips were swollen and bruised.
Whoa. Where had that come from?
“The fillings. I love pastries, but only the crust. I scrape out the fillings.” I shrugged like it was the most normal thing in the world, removing the last of the strawberry cream before taking a bite of the crust.
“There is something seriously wrong with you, woman. Do you know how hard it is to get fresh strawberries in October? And is that coffee cream? Shit, a cinnamon roll? Thank fuck I’m here. I saved these poor desserts from the travesty of being thrown away. You better not let the owner ever see you pull this shit.”
He grabbed a fork and pulled a plate closer, taking an obscene mouthful of coffee cream and stuffing it into his mouth.
Oh my god. Another noise, this one positively sinful. Another mark on the list.
“Your personality is giving me whiplash right now. We haven’t officially met, you know,” I said, tossing a napkin at him as he finished the food on the plate in two bites and grabbed another one. He motioned to the half-eaten fruit, and I shook my head as he pulled it closer with a twitch of his lips. I assumed it was a smile, but it was hard to tell around the mouthfuls of filling.
“Right. I’m Simon. Simon Kelly. I take it from the pissed-off expression you already figured that out. Probably because you saw the article that shitty reporter printed this morning. Oh, and I have a bit of a sweet tooth.”
“Sweet tooth is an understatement,” I said, watching him finish the second plate and dig into the fruit bowl. “Yes. I saw the article and got an earful from my mother about it. Nice to meet you, Simon. I’m Addison Allison. How did you wind up here, exactly? Helping yourself to my pastries.”
“I like that, the double-A name. These strawberries are fantastic, by the way. I was on my way to your office to return this bracelet. It must have fallen into my jacket pocket last night. Here,” he said, reaching into his vest pocket. His voice sounded like caramel running over rock-salt. Smooth and gravely, sending goosebumps up my legs.
Why was I so obsessed with his voice?
I should give him a hard time about his green pocket square or remind him he accused me of being a drunken slut last night. But in reality, I wanted to close my eyes and beg him to read from the giant menu behind the cashier. I’d buy him lunch if he’d say: white chocolate raspberry mocha with skim milk, dark chocolate drizzle, and extra whipped cream. Preferably while drizzling the whipped cream all over my naked body. Talk about my brain and lady bits sending mixed signals.
His fingers brushed mine as he handed me the bracelet and stayed there a moment longer than what was decent. Both of us were unwilling to move until a sinking feeling in my stomach reminded me of how disappointed my parents were in me.
I pulled back and slipped the bracelet into my clutch, then wrapped my hands around the large coffee mug, furiously thinking of a way out of this cluster-fuck of a situation.
“Thank you. I thought I’d lost it.”
“You’re welcome. I guess it was lucky I stopped here first. And I got an earful from my father as well. He roped me into a horrible charity event.” He pushed the plate away and ran a hand through his hair, mumbling words I couldn’t hear.
I studied the change in his features, noticing how his eyes got hard, and how the gray swirls darkened and his jaw clenched. His back went straight, and his hands went to his collar, straightening the edges. For as pissed as this whole situation made me, and as pissed as he made me, the way he closed himself down struck a nerve. The light switched off behind his eyes, and he went blank. I tried not to wonder why I could see the difference so clearly, and focused on what I could do to bring back the guy who ate my filling.
Why did I care?
Shaking my head, I brought the latte to my lips and took a sip. “At least you didn’t make up a fake relationship to give yourself credibility.” I leaned forward and speared a cantaloupe from the fruit bowl, arching an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah?” he said, choosing a pineapple and barely ticking up a corner of his mouth. “Are you stuck doing charity events with your money-hungry ex?”
I schooled my features, not blinking as I looked at the remaining fruit, leaving the strawberry and taking a grape. “Not this week. But I had a potential life-changing promotion swept out from under me, having to rethink my priorities.”
“Hmm,” he said, looking between the last strawberry and honeydew. “That sounds pathetic, but are you going through the motions, living off your trust fund, and hoping you may wake up fucking happy?”
