“I’d much rather learn how you do that trick.” He tips his head toward my hand.
I catch my pen reflexively, not even realizing I was flipping it. “It’s a bad habit.”
“Nah, it’s cool.” He gets up and is at my table in two steps. “Matthew.”
He holds out his hand. When I clasp it, I’m surprised by the roughness of it, as if he does something more with his hands other than typing on a keyboard or holding a pen. “Lucy.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucy. So what’s the trick to this?” He bounces one of my highlighters in his hand.
“No real trick. I tap the long end of the pen with my middle finger and let the momentum carry it around my thumb. Like this.” And I repeat the action, neatly catching it between my thumb and forefinger.
Matthew tries it, but the highlighter goes flying out of his fingers and skitters across the table. “Shit.”
I cover my laugh as he scoots over to pick up the marker. He tries again and the highlighter zips two tables over.
“Maybe not as much force next time. You aren’t launching a rocket into space,” I advise.
“I think you’ve made a deal with the devil,” he says after trying again.
“If I were to make a deal with the devil, do you really think this is the gift I’d ask for?” I spin the pen. “There are at least a million better things than a pen-spinning trick.”
“Good point. What would you ask for?” He lifts my mug and takes a sniff, making a face when the coffee scent hits his nose. He doesn’t even like the smell of coffee? I guess he has to have some flaws.
“Is this a straight trade, so I get eternal life in hell in exchange for something great on earth?”
“I suppose so. Are there other trades the devil will make?” He reaches back to grab his Gatorade off the floor next to the chair he’s no longer sitting in. His arms are so long he doesn’t even have to rise from his seat. His shirt pulls out of his jeans, and I catch a glimpse of well-defined abs.
I avert my eyes when he swings around so he doesn’t find me staring at his body like a creepster. One look is okay, two and I’ve definitely crossed over into bad behavior. “I don’t have any direct experience with the devil, but I’d try to make a bargain that does not include eternal hell. I’m not made for that kind of punishment.”
His lips quirk up. “Yeah, you do seem...sweet.”
“The devil doesn’t like sweet things?” The words pop out before my brain catches up with my mouth.
Matthew’s lips go from half-mast to full-out grin. “He might. But I think if he had the choice, he’d pick hot over sweet.” Sultry blue eyes rake over me. “Don’t worry, you’ve got the hot part covered, too.”
This time it’s my pen that flies across the table. Chuckling, Matthew snatches it out of the air.
“Nice reflexes,” I mutter. My cheeks feel like they’re flaming. I haven’t engaged in this kind of flirting since…well, I can’t remember the last time. And with this guy? It’s totally out of character.
“I’m good for something.” He winks and hands me the pen.
Our eyes meet, and the connection between us pings and arcs, warming me as surely as the flame of the fire five feet away. The register rings behind me, reminding me why I haven’t had sex in so long. Keith, my co-worker at the Brew House, was the last person I had sex with. It was uninspired sex—so boring that I think we both fell asleep before the deed was even done. I couldn’t really blame it on him either.
We were both distracted—him by some serious bio project and me by the mock trial case. Keith made out better than I did. He got an “A” on his bio project whereas my team didn’t make it out of regionals for the second year in a row. That time it wasn’t entirely my fault. We were just uninspiring, which is why Heather Bell is now part of the Western State team. She nearly brought everyone in the room to tears with her prepared closing statement during tryouts. The problem is that she doesn’t know a thing about how an actual trial works despite being the daughter of a superstar trial attorney.
As gorgeous as this Matthew guy is and as flattering as it is to have his attention, my priority is making it out of semi-finals this year. Two years of being beat down at something I’m supposed to be good at is wearing at my confidence. Giving up would be something my mom would do. Giving up and trotting off with the cute guy is her go-to plan. She’s done it my entire life.
Winning at mock trial doesn’t guarantee that I’m not going to end up like my mom, living from one boyfriend to the next, cutting out when there’s the least bit of tribulation on the horizon, but success would prove to myself that I’m her polar opposite.