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“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I grumble.
Of course, he wouldn’t bother checking the order label. I’d expect nothing less from someone who has a team of ass-kissers doting on him day-in and day-out. But I’ll be damned if the man who once broke my confidence walks off with anything that belongs to me.
My hand shoots out the minute he’s within striking range, fitting around his bicep before I can make heads or tails of what the hell I’m thinking.
“That’s mine,” I grate, nodding at the cup dwarfed by his long fingers. I notice the same color dirt that’s on his shirt splotches his knuckles.
Marcus blinks, stunned by the fire behind each word. Staring at the hand still clutching his arm, he says, “Excuse me?”
Instead of releasing him, I jerk my chin up and squeeze him tighter. “Get your grubby hand off my coffee.”
A batch of rusty synapses rapid-fire in my brain. Specifically, the ones that swoon at the muscles flexing beneath my touch.
Christ on a cracker.They sure know how to build ‘em in LA.
“Um,” he says, wide-eyed, as if his arm may catch on fire. “Listen, lady—”
I release him with a hiss. “Lady?”
I don’t intend to stare, but there’s something about those eyes. They’re livelier and more brilliant than I remember with tiny flecks of gold floating along the outer edges and a deep cerulean at the center.
There’s also not an ounce of recognition in their depths.
“Would you prefer I call you sir?”
It shouldn’t matter that he doesn’t remember me, but for reasons I refuse to untangle, it does.
I’m suddenly two feet tall. Just like the first time I ever met the jerk.
I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life. But honestly, I should thank him. If not for that interview—or lack thereof—I wouldn’t have grown the thick skin I needed to survive in this business.
When I swipe for my drink, the bastard pulls it out of reach.
“Funny.” Unfortunately burdened with the knowledge of his usual order, I add, “You’re not going to like it.”
Marcus drops his stare to my Nikon with a puppy-esque head tilt. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
My fists clench. As much pleasure as it would give me to gloat about my accomplishments to him, it’s not worth jeopardizing the mission. After all, revenge is best served printed in black and white.
“Nope. No one for you to worry your pretty head about,vamp.” I open my palm expectantly, enjoying the surprise on his too-perfect face. “Hand over the stolen life juice and there won’t be any trouble.”
The initial shock of being recognized gradually converts to mischief, making me regret not dashing out of the café when I had the chance.
“You mean, this?” Raising the cup in question, he inspects the outside. “Just as I thought. No name. No label. How do you know it’s yours?”
I peer at the men behind the counter who are sloppily throwing orders together while shouting each cup’s contents. It’s like coffee roulette back there as one of them slides various unmarked drinks across the counter.
“I mean, for all I know, it’syouwho’s thieving.”
“It’s a vanilla latte with chocolate sprinkles,” I say, annoyed by his mocking smile. “Take off the top and see for yourself.”
“Take off my top?” His voice is intentionally too loud, and my stomach plummets when he follows that up with, “You’ll have to buy me dinner first,sir.”
“Not you,” I hiss, my cheeks heating unbearably. “The coffee.”
My eye twitch deepens when Marcus ignores my request and brings the cup to his lips instead. He helps himself to a nice long sip before smacking a couple of times as if trying to decode the flavors.
If looks could kill, he wouldn’t be six feet under—he’d be hogtied to a cinder block at the bottom of the ocean with my maniacal laughter the last sound he ever heard.
