“You’re just saying that because you’re enjoying yourself, dating two cute girls at the same time.”
He grinned. “Blondes, too.”
I reached up, standing on my tiptoes, and ruffled his hair, which was even lighter than mine. He grabbed my hand and stuck my thumb in his mouth.
I groaned as my knees buckled, a thunderbolt of lust shooting down my back.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked around my thumb.
“Nothing.” (Nothing but getting his jeans off.)
“What’s that in the little paper cup?” He released my thumb and grabbed my drink.
“Mocha. And you’re not licking it off my body. I don’t share my mocha.”
He took a sip without asking. “Sweet.” He took a look at the label with the coffee house’s logo. “How late is Java Jones open? I’m going to be here late, working out the moving plan.”
Adrian was still working his weekend shifts at the bookstore, but he’d quit working at the pie shop. Gordon was paying him full-time hours to orchestrate the whole move and grand re-opening. I would have been stressed more over the move, but Adrian was so organized… and capable… and adorable.
I slipped my purse off my shoulder and set it on the counter between us, next to the coffee. “Then I’ll be here late, too.”
“You’re off the clock.”
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s mostly going to be me staring straight ahead while the slow gears in my head grind away.”
“That sounds fun! Where do we start?” I grabbed the bent metal tip of the measuring tape and started looking around.
“You should go home and rest up for tomorrow. People will be coming in looking for bargains because word’s getting out about the move. Gordon wants to put all the greeting cards on sale.”
“Those things are twenty years old! They’re all thumbed through, and should go in the dumpster.” I shifted back and forth, aware that my feet were sore from being there all day. “Adrian Storm, are you trying to get rid of me?”
“How much work do you think I’ll get done if you’re here?”
“You don’t think we make a great team?”
“For some things, yes. You’re really fun, but you’re not exactly open to other people’s ideas.”
“That’s not fair. You can’t hold stuff against me from high school, and all those arguments over autograph pages. We’re not kids anymore.”
Smirking, he reached under the counter and pulled out a red binder. My handwriting was on the cover in black ink, and the book had initially been titled Peachtree Books Do’s and Don’ts. That title had been crossed out, replaced with the more appropriate title, Adrian, Study This or Death Will Befall You.
“That’s a joke,” I said. “Wait, are you mad?”
“Not mad. I just have a lot to do tonight, and I won’t be able to focus if I’m slobbering over your delicious peaches, now, will I?”
“Hmm.” I pulled my purse back onto my shoulder. “You may have a point, for once.”
“Does it ever get any easier with you?”
“Easy is boring.”
I backed toward the door. “You have your keys?”
“That’s how I got in.”
“Adrian, a simple yes or no would suffice. Ever consider you’re the difficult one?”
Before he could answer, I rushed out the door, jubilant in getting the last word. Take that, Mr. Smarty Pants Adrian.
~
I arrived home to discover we had company. Someone was giggling in the kitchen, so I went back to investigate.
When I reached the doorway, I heard a sound I should have recognized, but didn’t. If I hadn’t been thinking about my own sex life, I might have recognized the sound of a satisfied customer who’d successfully deployed The Assassin, or a regular human, for a job that needed doing.
I’ve heard Shayla’s O-sound, but I’d never seen her O-face. Until that Tuesday night. Completely naked, she sat spread-legged on the peninsula of the kitchen counter, with a shaggy head of hair (thankfully) between me and Shayla’s taco stand. The head was attached to a guy, fully clothed and taking his job very seriously.
Stopped in my tracks, I stood there, dumbfounded. You know how sometimes you’re so full of different emotions and thoughts, your mind just overloads and takes a few seconds to reboot? No? Try walking in on your roommate having sex on your kitchen counter, and you’ll see what I mean.
What probably had the biggest impact on me was the emotion on her face. I’d seen Shayla enjoy a four-cheese pizza, and I thought that was her O-face. But this was like pizza and Christmas morning and getting a raise, all at once. With her cheeks flushed and eyelashes fluttering, she was beautiful and real, a woman with curves and folds, and not a glossy magazine image. I’d never seen anything like it.