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“Okay, let’s say you do, in fact, do that.”
“I do.” He cuts me off, and I hold up my hand.
“Right. But, Jake, you can’t just run off and leave your girlfriend unprotected. For one, it is fucked up. And rude. Not to mention, it scares me sometimes.”
He steps closer, pushing the flyaways from my braid behind my ear. “I’m sorry, babe. You’re right, it is fucked up. And I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m just…” he trails off, sighing. “I’ve never had a serious girlfriend. I’m not used to someone caring or depending on me, but I promise I’ll try to do better.” He kisses the tip of my nose.
“Okay,” I breathe out. I’m not completely satisfied but I do understand where he is coming from.
He walks me to my car door, opening it for me. He kisses me, a kiss so amazing it leaves me breathless. As I drive home, my mind runs a million different directions, but it always comes back tohim.
Mr. Boyd.
* * *
Macy was supposedto meet me at the coffee shop this morning, but right as I walked in the door, she texted me to let me know she had a family emergency. So here I am, on a Saturday, out of bed before twelve, which is how late I’d usually sleep in, bright and early, nine o’clock sharp at this coffee shop because she asked me to. And Macyknowshow much I loathe mornings. I look at myself in the mirror on the wall, at the bright pink dress that’s tight on my body, the matching bow, the nude lipstick, knowing I look nice because I spent time crafting this look, wondering if maybe I should ruin it by going home and crawling back into bed. But I’m already here, so I might as well get some coffee.
The shop is modern. Exposed ceiling, white countertops and walls, bamboo accents. The chairs look sterile and uncomfortable, cold almost. I much prefer my coffee shop with the mismatched couches and exposed brick walls, but I see why Macy loves it here. It screams her taste.
I walk up to the counter, a frowning barista waiting for me. I definitely wouldn’t call it a greeting. He looks like he hates life, and honestly, at this hour of the day, I can’t blame him. “Can I get an iced coffee, four shots with whole milk, seven pumps of vanilla, shaken, please?”
The barista groans, typing in my order. “Would you like me to go personally milk the cow as well?”
Hiding a grin, I say, “No, that’s okay. I don’t like my baristas to know the source of the dairy personally. A pet peeve of mine.”
He glares, unamused as I put my card in the chip reader. I take a step back, bumping into a brick wall I know was not there three minutes ago. “I’m sorry,” I begin to say as I turn, stopping when I see who it is. And mother of God what is he wearing? “Mr. Boyd?”
He glares down at me. “Miss Madison. Always a pleasure running into you.”
I narrow my eyes. “But it’s not really, is it, Mr. Boyd?”
“It’s not. Now, move so I can order my coffee.” He dismisses me.
My eyes sweep over him as he walks around me. Taking in his black running shoes, the dark hair on his legs, how his shorts hug his tree trunk thighs. His shirt is wet from sweat, clinging to his strong, toned back muscles. His thick hair a mess, a sexy calculated one. As if his fingers have run marathons through it.
It is weird, him not in his usual white shirt and black slacks. I can’t believe he owns shoes that don’t shine. Almost like watching the Discovery Channel.I frown as I watch his hand flex as he grabs his coffee. And the barista? Freaking smiling. I narrow my eyes at the no-name grump. Because how did he already get his coffee before me? I was here first. The barista, the punk, smirks at me. What kind of coffee shop is this? Grumpy beans? Cockhole coffee, maybe? I cross my arms, tapping my heel against the floor as I watch the bastard barista take his sweet time, slowly adding pumps of vanilla to my coffee. After he finishes, he sets my coffee on the counter, bowing his head at me. I snatch my coffee, looking at the tiny crown sitting on the cursiveBthat’s written on the side of my coffee. “Good one,” I whisper.
Turning for the door, I stop mid-stride, spotting my grumpy teacher sitting in the sterile white chair of the cockhole coffee shop. Smiling, I walk over to him. He sips his coffee—I bet it’s black with absolutely zero fun flavors in it. Black and bitter like him. “Hi, Mr. Boyd.”
He sighs, looking up at me with his ashy eyes. “Can’t stay away from me, can you?” He sits his coffee down, phone resting next to it. “Should I get a restraining order?’
Honestly, he probably should.My cheeks heat with frustration and embarrassment. “That won’t be necessary.” I fix my bow, and his eyes track the movement, staring a little longer than anyone should, before his eyes snap back to mine.
“Is there something I can help you with?’
“Yeah.” I take a seat and his eyes narrow. “I checked my grades, and it seems I’m failing your class. Weird, huh?” I laugh a little even though failing is so not funny.
“Not weird. But if you’d like to discuss your grade, you know when my free period is.”
My foot stomps in protest under the table. My lust and frustration clouding my judgment. “But, Mr. Boyd.”
He startles me, leaning over the table so fast my eyes cross and lose focus as he gets in my face. “Are you always so bratty?” he growls.
My heart races and I feel a little breathless as I whisper, “Only for you.”
His eyes twinkle as he leans back, giving me the space and air I don’t want. “We’ll discuss your grade in detention on Monday.”
“But I don’t have detention.”
