“—are welcome to have as many Pop-Tarts as you want when you’re here.”
She pins me with a wary half smile and I watch as she fights it, finally giving in and letting the grin take over her entire mouth. My chest feels hot, pulse too fast. It’s like the anticipation before a match but infinitely better. Whatever it is, it makes me drunk on her. Being near her, making her smile makes me feel incredible. She can see it and I let her. I’m fucking drunk on this girl.
Finally, exhaling a shaky breath, she smacks my chest. “You’re hopeless.”
I grab her hand before she can pull it away, resting it on my chest. I know she can feel my heart pounding, and if what I’m watching happen with her pulse in her throat is any indication, her heart is beating just as hard.
I smile, and watch as it softens something in her expression. “I think you’re right,” I tell her.
Chapter THIRTEEN
London
I ORDER ANOTHER CAPPUCCINO and weave through the small line to get back to my seat. Most of the staff here know me by name and don’t mind when I spend hours at my favorite table: the one near the outlet that actually works. They know I like one Sugar in the Raw in my coffee and that I’ll say I don’t want a blueberry muffin but usually end up ordering one anyway.
I’m a creature of habit and have been coming to this particular shop as long as I can remember. Summers meant weekdays surfing and then relaxing at Nana’s house, and Sunday mornings at Pannikin. She’d have her chai latte and let me order a hot chocolate and we would do the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, which basically meant Nana would do it and I would people-watch.
Even without her I’m unable to break the routine.
It’s April and despite it being the standard seventy—two degrees outside, it’s freezing in the store. I settle back into my chair and pull the cardigan out of my bag, buttoning it up before turning back to my laptop.
I blow into my coffee and look back to the screen, to the section of Lola’s site I’ve spent the last few hours coding. Her original designer had created a template full of neon colors and lots of animation, but I’ve dialed it back down to something a bit more subdued, a palette that will really let Lola’s art do the talking. Her images are geometric and bold, and practically jump off the screen. It’s strange that while I’ve been living around this art for the past eight months, I don’t think I’ve ever really appreciated how insanely talented Lola is until now.
The door opens and the air-conditioning kicks on directly over my head. I slink down into my sweater and pull my cup closer, hoping the warmth will seep into my fingers, when I hear my name.
Well, sort of.
“Logan?”
DANGER, DANGER.
I blink up to see Luke standing near the counter, and a rush of adrenaline shoots through my veins. His hair is messy and he’s dressed in a T-shirt and track pants, as if he’s just been for a run. Even a little sweaty—maybe because he looks a little sweaty?—he looks better than should be humanly possible. He pulls out his wallet to pay and my eyes drop automatically to the way the damp T-shirt clings to his shoulders and dips in at his waist, down to where his hip bones . . .
The chair across from me scrapes against the floor and I snap my head up to meet his eyes: brown and clearly amused to have caught me ogling him. He sits across from me, drink already in front of him, arms resting on the table, and takes his time doing his own—rather blatant—inspection. I clear my throat.
“You know it’s April, right?” he says, and motions to my clothes while he takes a sip from his iced drink.
“It’s freezing in here,” I tell him, tugging my sleeves farther down over my hands. “It’s at least seventy outside. Why do they insist on the arctic temperatures in here? So I can model my finest winter fashions?”
Luke shrugs and takes another drink before glancing at his phone and putting it away in his pocket. He stretches his neck side to side and then glances at the scarf around my neck.
I wait for him to make one of his trademark unfiltered come-ons . . . but he doesn’t. It takes me a second to place my reaction as disappointment.
But you’re the one who drew the “just friends” line, London.
“Did you make sure they put skim in your drink?” I ask, recovering. “Wouldn’t want them to sneak whole milk in that drink and ruin the salad you had for lunch.”
Luke aims his smile at me, ignoring my baiting snark.
Again: disappointment.
“So what are you doing there?” He taps a finger on the top of my laptop. “Googling cheat codes for Titanfall?”
The twinkle in his eyes loosens an anxious knot in my chest.
I take a sip of my own drink and set it back down again. “Working on Lola’s website. She was having some trouble with the guy she hired and I told her I’d fix it for her.”