But if I took two, maybe three, steps toward her, yelled “Fire!” and then screamed nonsense about a bee attacking me, the pumpkin bread she had in hand would probably fall to the ground, and it would be wasteful if I didn’t rescue it from the ants.
All creatures deserve food—but pumpkin bread was too good for ants, too rich, and they’d explode all over the floor from the richness and it would be my fault—for saving the barista’s life, right? From the bee?
I think I just confused myself.
“Why are you breathing so heavy?” Lucas asked from my right.
I snapped out of my pumpkin-bread daydream and shrugged. “Sorry, low on sleep.”
He gave a noncommittal nod and then it was his turn. Greedy little bastard already had one coffee—now he was getting another one! “A venti macchiato and a large coffee with room for cream, two slices—”
I elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“Sorry, um, three slices of pumpkin bread, thanks.”
He handed the barista his card, while my greedy eyes locked on the pumpkin bread as the barista placed it into a bag and gave it to him.
With an exasperated sigh, he shoved the bag into my hands. “Just leave me one bite.”
“No promises.” I was already digging into the bag, my mouth watering as I followed him around the counter with a little pep in my step.
Lucas grabbed our drinks and motioned toward one of the tables. I sat, stuffed more pumpkin goodness into my mouth, and managed to chug some coffee almost all at once.
Lucas shook his head. “I always forget how seriously you take your pumpkin bread.”
I moaned and took another huge bite. “My theory is this.”
He leaned forward, a smile curving around his gorgeous mouth. “Alright, out with it.”
More pumpkin bread found its way into my mouth as I talked—I didn’t even care if I looked like a starved animal. “Pumpkin bread has the same addictive properties as cocaine.”
“That’s your theory? That it’s a drug?”
“Right.” I sighed and leaned back. “Except it doesn’t make you skinny, unfortunately.”
His smile widened, and he grabbed a small hunk of bread. “Want to know my theory?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking—I hope Lucas tells me his theory so I can eat his portion of bread.”
Lucas scooted the bag toward me and whispered, “Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, pumpkin gods.” I moaned again.
His eyes darted to my mouth.
“What?” I wiped my lips. “Is something on my face?”
“No.” He looked away. “So my theory is this . . . pumpkin flavoring is a conspiracy by the government to see how many ways we can market a flavor and make money off it.”
“Boo.” I gave him a thumbs-down. “Thanks, grinch. Oh, and stop ruining holidays.”
He smirked. “You’ve known forever that Santa isn’t real. Still doesn’t stop you from leaving him cookies every Christmas Eve, then sneaking downstairs and eating them all by yourself.”
“One”—I held up a finger—“it’s genius because nobody will touch them for fear that I’ll get mad. Two”—I held up a second finger—“when everyone else is sad about the Christmas cookies being gone, I know I’ll have them all to myself. It’s like . . .” I sighed, “. . . a Christmas present. To myself.”
“Except for that one time.” He smirked.
“Cruel man.” I glared at him. “How dare you eat my cookies?”
He shrugged. “They were sweet.”
Was it hot? In this little Starbucks? By the window where the sun was searing me alive like I was under a magnifying glass?
I tugged at my sleeveless blouse.
“About Saturday . . .”
Uncomfortable conversation, here we come! I strapped in and waited for the inevitable. And then realized, to my dismay, that he’d just bought me coffee and food without letting me go to the office.
My eyes filling with tears, I shook my head a few times. “Lucas, I may give you crap, but I really need this job.”
He frowned, like he was confused.
“Don’t say another word.” I held out my hands. “I’ll do anything, Lucas—and I mean anything—to keep this job. I wasn’t kidding when I said my parents were chomping at the bit to get me to move home, and I don’t want to. It’s not just about me being defiant; they want me to take over the family business.”
Lucas burst out laughing and then sobered. “Oh, you’re serious.”
“I can’t sell chicken, Thorn.”
“I mean, to be fair, Avery, your parents own a very lucrative organic meats company. I’m sure they could offer you at least five figures.” His smile was way too smug, but I still had to be nice to him rather than throw him off a cliff, because he could fire me.
“Look”—I tried a different tactic—“Mom and Dad are great, I love them, but Brooke lives at home . . .”
“What? Brooke?” He frowned. “I thought she went off to LA to try acting or something.”
I gulped. “Or something.”
“Avery?”
“She slept with the wrong person, made the wrong friends, and is now very happily hanging out in her old bedroom and doing the books for my parents’ business. She hates life, and she’s grumpy, and she’s not a nice person. So, no, I don’t want to move home, and, yes, I do need this job. If you’re going to fire me, fine, but at least give me two weeks’ notice so I can build a nice shack by the water. All the good street corners are taken, and I refuse to be confused with a prostitute!”
“You done yet?”
“Yes.” I sighed, feeling slightly better but still shaky, like he was just waiting for me to calm down so he could run me over with a motorized vehicle, only to apologize and do it again, such were the ways of Lucas Thorn.
“You said you’d do anything?” I didn’t like that look, that look with his eyebrows arching a bit, exposing more of his hypnotic eyes and damn cleft chin!
“I—”
“You said, and I quote, ‘I’ll do anything, Lucas . . .’”
“I don’t sound that shrill,” I snapped.
“Eh, pretty sure you do.” He took a long, smug sip of his coffee and then shrugged.
“So you need me—am I hearing this correctly?”
I shifted in my seat, avoiding eye contact. Napkins littered the floor by my feet and—oh look, a green straw. Maybe I could save it for later and use it to help build my shack by the water. Homelessness wouldn’t be so bad—I mean, I could bathe in the ocean, live off the land.
I once heard that grasshoppers taste like chicken.
“Avery, look at me.” His voice was smooth. Slowly I lifted my gaze to his stupidly beautiful face. “Dinner. Tuesday. Those are my terms, take them or leave them.”
I jerked back in response. “Dinner? That’s it? Lucas, is this your idea of a sick joke? You know one of my favorite things to do is eat. I take food very seriously.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Okay, so it’s entirely possible that I once fell asleep at his house and woke up screaming, “Hamburger!”
But in my defense, I’d forgotten to eat after soccer practice, and the parents had been gone again, which meant I got scared and went to Lucas’s house, because, well, he had bigger muscles and was strategic in all his monster-fighting ability. The man had fake ninja stars.