Smirking, he pins me with his gaze. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I grumble, and try to tug the book away from his hold, but his hand is like a rock. “Let it go.”
He does and I jerk back in my chair with the force, earning a soft chuckle from Thomas. He takes a seat then. I can’t look away from the expert way he’s holding Nicky, safe and secure against his chest.
His chest that I saw naked last night.
Don’t think about it.
But my shameless heart doesn’t listen and I’m bombarded with flashes of my adventure. I press my lips together. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up blurting it all out. Thomas can never find out what I saw. Never.
He sips his coffee and fishes the pastry out of the bag—chocolate croissant.
“Is that your go-to food?” I ask, thinking about his delicious smell.
“Pretty much, yeah. And in case you were wondering…” He takes a bite of it. “I don’t share chocolate.”
I watch him chew, the smooth movements of his jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. It’s mundane, something he does multiple times every day, and that makes this common occurrence so uncommon for me. It’s a peek into his daily activities.
As if I haven’t gotten enough peeks. Disgusted, I lower my gaze.
Thomas goes ahead and picks up the book, reading the title, effectively hiding his face. “Coming of Age as a Poet.”
I’m doubly ashamed now. I don’t want him to see how I’m struggling, how deep his words from the other day cut me. “Can I have it back? I’m working.”
I tug it free from his grip and he lets me, revealing his playful gaze. “But you just said you’re doing nothing.”
I roll my eyes at his childish statement. “I lied, okay.”
“Lying’s a very bad habit, Miss Robinson,” he informs me, his voice anything but childish now. “It might land you in trouble.”
“I think I can handle a little trouble, Professor Abrams.”
He remains silent and drinks his coffee, watching me with speculation. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I want him to leave. I’ve committed so many crimes in the past couple of days that I can’t even look at him without going hot and flushed all over. I bet I resemble a tomato, and I don’t even like tomatoes, especially on a hamburger. I always gave them to Caleb.
He knows. Thomas knows I saw him last night.
“Do I make you nervous, Layla?”
“No,” I scoff—or try to; it comes out all squeaky and high.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” he murmurs then takes another sip. “Have you done something?”
“What, no,” I say quickly, playing with the pages of the book. “Look, do you mind leaving? I’m working here.”
“How can you work here? Isn’t it too loud?”
“I like it. It reminds me of home,” I mumble.
“Where did you live, a playground?”
“No. New York.”
He grows serious at my answer, and the crinkles around his eyes disappear as he studies me. Great, more microscopic observation. I should just tell him so this torture is over. Why can’t I be normal and hide things like other people?
Learn to eat your feelings, Layla. Learn it!
“You miss the noise of the city,” he concludes, breaking my inner monologue. I nod with hesitation. Taking another sip of the coffee, he says, “Me too.”
I barely suppress a gasp at his revelation. I’m shocked that he chose to tell me something personal about himself. Now, along with drowning in embarrassment about my nightly actions, I’m thoroughly confused.
“What?” he asks.
“I… You’re so weird.” He arches his eyebrow at me. “No, really. Why are you being so nice to me?”
“I’m always nice.”
“No, you’re not. You hate me. You’re always giving me a death glare, like I’m responsible for, I don’t know, terrorism or global warming or something.”
He chuckles or maybe laughs. It’s a bark of a sound, rusty and awkward but still. I made him do that. Me.
Thomas goes to take a sip of his coffee, but I snatch it away before he can. I’m feeling gutsy now. His weird laugh/chuckle has made me brave. Embarrassment is still there, but like every time we’re close, I become bolder.
Thomas gives me a meaningful look as I take a sip. “What? You know I only steal stuff that gives me a high.” I shrug.
Shaking his head, he looks out the glass wall we’re sitting by. I realize that outside of the Labyrinth, Thomas is much more receptive to me. Outside of class, he’s more playful, relaxed. The man really hates teaching, doesn’t he?
Nicky chooses this moment to gurgle and whip his fists up and down. I’ve been avoiding looking at him. Somehow entertaining sordid thoughts about Thomas and spying on him, and then looking at Nicky’s innocent face feels…wrong.
“Hey, Nicky.” I greet him with a wave of my fingers, and the little man with the black beanie and fat cheeks turns his bright eyes to me. He lunges—as much as he can while still strapped to his daddy’s chest—to grab my finger. Chuckling, I reach out and let him wrap his dimpled fist around it.
“Aren’t you cute?” I blow kisses at him, making him laugh. “I wonder where you get it from.” I widen my eyes at Thomas playfully.
Thomas’ eyes are anything but playful. They are twin peaks of intensity, and they are trained on me. I shift in my chair, craving some sort of friction between my legs.
I want to keep looking, but I bring my focus back to Nicky. He’s playing with my finger happily. “Oh look, you’re wearing purple again. Good boy. You know what I think? I think you and me, we’re soul mates. We should have matching outfits.”
Thomas breaks his silence. “Don’t give him ideas. I don’t want my son to dress up like a clown.”
Affronted, I glare at him. “Are you calling me a clown? What’s wrong with what I wear?”
He pops a bit of the croissant in his mouth. “What’s that on your head?”
My free hand goes up and I take off my hat, ruffling my hair. Waves fall around my face and I push them away. Thomas’ gaze flicks over the loose mass of curls and it has me wondering if something is stuck in there. My hair tends to catch things—dead leaves, snow, twigs.
I feel shy all of a sudden so I glance down and clear my throat. “This is a Russian-style Arctic fur hat.”
“And this is what, Russia?”
I purse my lips at Thomas and the crinkles around his eyes deepen, as he chews on another piece of croissant. To Nicky, I say, “Tell him, Nicky. Tell him he’s a judgmental moron.”
Nicky abandons my finger and stares at my hat. He coos at it while chewing on his fist. God, he’s so adorable. I almost can’t look at him.
“Do you want this Russian hat by any chance, little man?” I offer it to him and he grabs at it, and then promptly goes on to drool on it. “See? He loves it so much he wants to eat it.” I throw Thomas a pitying glance. “It’s okay, not everyone can be cool.”