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“From using my super power,” I reply.
“Oh, fuck me in half,” Caleb mutters, dragging a hand through his hair and leaning up against the glass door of the Talenti gelatos. “Seriously with this? It’s not a super power, Jake. It’s not anything.”
I shoot daggers at him with my eyes. “You’re just jealous.”
He scoffs. “Why would I be jealous?”
“Because it means I can read people better than you,” I reply.
“You think I need to know Mars’ favorite ice cream flavor to know him?”
“It helps,” I say with a shrug.
Cay snorts. “Go on then, Superman. Walk me through it. What ice cream flavor is he?”
I narrow my eyes back at the wall of glass. “I’ve already ruled out cookies, caramel, anything with fruit, and anything special edition. Mars is the old reliable type. He wants something he can count on. He likes routine. I bet he treats eating dessert like he treats a cheat meal. It’s a mild indulgence for him.”
“So, nothing flashy?” Caleb says. I know the asshole is curious. He’s glancing at the case. I see his wheels turning too. “Maybe he’s a plain vanilla guy.”
I snort. “There’s nothing vanilla about him. No, he’s suave and sophisticated and European. He’s got that awesome full back tattoo, meaning he’s got an artsy side. Even if he can’t do art, he can appreciate it. And he listens to that crazy death metal music all the time. No, he’s not a vanilla. Or a plain chocolate.”
Now Caleb is looking earnestly at the case, his annoyance forgotten. “Coffee?”
“No. He drinks coffee, he doesn’t eat it. I’m thinking something with nuts,” I explain. Actually, it’s helping to talk it out. “But he’s definitely not a Butter Pecan guy. That’s too American.”
“How do you know he’s a Häagen-Dazs flavor?” Caleb teases.
He laughs, but it’s a serious question. I shake my head with a sigh. “I don’t. That’s the problem.” But now I’m invested. I want to get this right. I want to show Mars how well I can read him. And fine, I wanna show Caleb too. “He might just be the toughest nut I’ve tried to crack,” I admit.
“Oh, so you’re tryin’ to crack his nuts? Something you’re not telling me, Superman?” There’s a laugh in his tone, but his eyes are serious. Caleb is territorial. Whatever we are—me and him; me and Rachel; me, him, and Rachel—it’s enough to have him on edge.
“No,” I reply, gently. “I’m not interested in Mars as anything other than a friend…and the occasional fuck buddy. You gotta admit, he’s impressive. I bet he’s riding Rachel ragged with that monster co—”
“Shut up,” Caleb growls, pushing off the cooler to shove my arm.
“What’s the matter? You jealous? This whole sharing thing not working for you? I’ll happily accept your defeat. Just means more Rachel for me—”
“I’m not jealous,” he mutters, lowering his voice as an old lady comes around the corner pushing a full shopping cart. “I’m just free-ballin’ it in these shorts,” he adds, discreetly adjusting himself.
I snort, my nose catching a whiff of his crisp cologne as he steps in closer, letting the lady pass behind us. I stifle a groan. I hate how much I react to even just the smell of his cologne. My skin feels like it’s tingling and I wanna bury my face at his neck and breathe him in.
And I don’t know if it was intentional, but as he shifts, his crotch brushes against the outside of my hand.
Holy fuck.
He’s getting hard right here in the ice cream aisle. Thinking about Rachel with Mars is turning him on. Fuck, nowI’mgetting turned on thinking abouthimbeing turned on.
“Will you just pick one?” he mutters.
I blink, refocusing on the wall of ice creams. “I’ve narrowed it down to two,” I say. “He’s either a Pistachio, or a Vanilla Swiss Almond.”
“I thought we said no vanilla?” he replies crossing his arms over his chest. “Come on, it’s freezing. Pick already.”
I slow turn toward him with a frown. “We live on an ice rink and you’re cold? Really?”
“It’s the juxtaposition,” he replies in that authoritative, I-was-a-chemistry-major tone he gets sometimes. “The warm air behind us is mixing with the cold and it’s giving me the chills. Just pick a damn ice cream, so we can go.”
“Fine,” I huff, swinging open the freezer door. “Pistachio it is.” I snatch up a pint and toss it into the basket, letting the door whisper shut.
