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He squints a little, and I catch a flicker of something a bit scary. Exciting, too, if I’m completely honest.
Blinking, he clears his throat. “Not at all. Have a seat.”
I almost laugh, his weak attempt at covering the slip very cliché. I think this far down the road it would be ridiculously Victorian to pretend neither of us remembers how we met.
I take the seat across from him and set my chin on my knee. “I hope you don’t wear those glasses on the street.”
“Nope.”
“Good. They don’t go with the rest of the look.”
“Hmm, well, I wouldn’t want to ruin the mystique.”
“I thinkmystiquemight be too strong.”
His lips curve up on one end. “My uniform?”
“Maybe. Reading glasses undermine the tattoos and all.” I wave my hand in his general direction. “So, speaking of uniforms. Is there anywhere around here for a person to buy some clothes?”
“There’s a big discount store in town.”
"They sells clothes?”
His coffee cup stops shy of his mouth. “Is that a serious question?”
I can’t help it if I come from a long line of mall shoppers.
He takes a sip and swallows. “Tell you what, we’ll run into town later and find out.” He sets his mug down. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“I can do it.” I ache, but I’m not helpless. He’s done too much already. I sniff out the coffee maker, not a difficult task in this shoebox kitchen.
“Mugs are top right.”
The cabinet I open has only plates of varying sizes.
“Your other right.” I hear a snicker from the cheap seats and toss out a snotty look I’ve perfected.
His palms come up. “Hey, just trying to help is all. And by the way, spoons are on your other right too.”
I glare down my nose at him, but every last bit of my haughty act dissipates when I find those green eyes trained like lasers on me. He’s being playful, and it’s hard not to be moved by a face that handsome. Gorgeous eyes. Cute dimple. Truly, how does anyone on the street take him seriously? Druggies and dealers are supposed to be pockmarked, ugly sons of guns.
He points to the tall red container by the napkin caddy on the windowsill. “Creamer’s here.”
Ick. “There’s no half and half?”
His eyes flatten out.
Yeah, kinda high maintenance of me. I pick up the plastic jar and unscrew the lid. “This is great. Thanks.”
Marco sighs. “We can pick some up at the store. Mom buys this generic powdered stuff in bulk. I hate it too.” He tilts his cup so I can see. Solid black. Mr. French vanilla with cream is slumming this morning.
But I cannot drink mine straight, so I dump in what seems an absurd amount of fake creamer. It takes that much to achieve the perfect shade of mocha.
“How is it?” he asks, nose pinched, after my tentative first sip.
“Not as bad as I remember. This is all they had at the coffee bar in Sunday school.”
“You had a coffee bar in Sunday school?”
