She walks over, squints at the label, then whirls back on me with narrowed eyes. “Gluten-free pistachio and rose.” Her tone is pure accusation. “Miller.”
I hold her stare. “What?”
“You bought my favorite macarons.”
“They’re just macarons.”
A grin tugs at the corner of her pink lips as she carefully opens the box. “Mm, funny. The bakery was sold out when I stopped in today…”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t move.
Her mouth parts as she looks inside, realization dawning slowly. “Oh my god… Because you bought them all?”
“Eli suggested cupcakes,” I grumble, heat crawling up my neck.
She gasps dramatically, turning to me and pressing a hand to her chest. “Cupcakes are for quitters, Miller. Pistachio and rose is an elite combo.”
“Rose is soap, Parnell,” I shoot back, crossing my arms. “You’re eating soap.”
She grins. “If soap tastes like this, I’ll take a lifetime supply.”
I shake my head and mutter, “Insufferable,” but the word sticks in my throat, tangled with the swell in my chest.
“Pookie.” Her smile tips into something cutesy. She rocks side to side with her hands clasped behind her back, as if she’s performing for an invisible audience. “You got my favorite macarons.”
I grunt. “Just because I remembered—”
“You knew the flavors I like best.” She drags out each word like she’s narrating my confession.
“Tallulah, this is a thank—”
“Youcare, Miller. Youactuallycare.” She cuts me off, purposefully ignoring me in favor of her performance, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest.
The lip bite comes next, exaggerated and coy. She’s laying it on so thick I almost laugh, except my pulse is hammering in my throat.
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. She’s so radiant and pleased with herself that all I can think about is how hard she’s trying to fluster me.
But then, mercifully, her gaze lands on another box tucked against the wall cabinet.
“You were going to trash it,” she says, pointing at it with mock-offence.
I follow her stare to the flamingo. That pink inflatable monstrosity she tried to give me as a thank you.
“Never said I’d do that.”
“You’ve stacked it on this shelf like you’re waiting for trash collection day.” She steps closer, hands on her hips, sparkling with fake outrage. “Myflamingo. Abandoned before it even saw daylight.”
“You’re welcome to blow it up and use the pool while I’m gone,” I deadpan. “Dusty might enjoy the company.”
The words leave me before I can stop them, and suddenly, all I can see is her with loose hair, stretched out on the flamingo float in my pool, sun glowing off her skin.
Her grin tilts into something sly and cheeky. “You picturing me in the pool, Miller?”
I choke on nothing. Absolutely fuckingnothing.
“No.”
“Uh-huh.” She taps the box with a painted nail, sealing her victory. “Bet you’d look good on it, too. Big bad hockey player, pink flamingo.”
