“Laugh all you want, but we’re supposed to be giving into the spirit of the town, and I felt like this did the trick.”
“Okay,” she says, putting her hands up. “Itisactually kind of cute on you.” She smirks, shifting her eyes to mine.
“Oh yeah? You think I’m cute.” I stand up a little taller and puff out my chest.
“You know I do. Just don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, it’s definitely going to my head.” Glancing down at my dick, Iwiggle my eyebrows.
“How do you do that?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“Make me want you even when I should want nothing to do with you?”
“You want me?”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Stop,” she scolds, blush covering her cheeks.
“That’s not a word I’ve heard you say before.” The corner of my mouth tips upward.
“Don’t flirt with me when we’re supposed to be focusing on getting back to New York. We have so much to figure out.”
“But the flirting is fun.”
“The flirting isn’t going to get us anywhere but back in bed, and the only place we need to be going is back to New York.”
“It’s that hard to resist me?” I nudge her as we continue to walk.
“Um…”
“You can admit it.”
She shakes her head. “Yes. Okay. It’s hard to resist you, and while we’re both used to distracting one another from a bad day, this is different. We need to try to focus, and you flirting is making that really hard.”
My eyes find hers, and I lift an eyebrow.
“We’ll figure it out,” I assure her. “Plus, if we took a detour to the bed on the way back to New York, would that be the worst thing in the world?”
“Everett,” she warns.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll stop.” I put my hands up and shake my head.
For now.
I can’t help myself when I’m around her, and as much as she wants to pretend like she doesn’t like our little back and forths, I know she does.
“Shall we go figure it out?” I ask, pulling the doors of Citrine Brews open. Following her inside, we’re met with immediate warmth and calm.
The lighting is dim, and exposed brick surrounds the space on three sides. Worn wood floors are covered by mismatched vintage rugs. Along one of the walls is a large bar. The veining of the wood and raw edges add to the woodsy charm of the shop. Behind the bar is a cluttered counter covered with espresso machines, pour-over coffee makers, canisters filled with ingredients, syrups, mugs, andmore. Hanging plants, novelty signs, and Christmas trinkets haphazardly decorate the shelves above it. Two large chalk boards list the seasonal menu, and twinkling lights are strung across the ceiling. A small glass case to the right of the register is full of seasonal pastries.
An array of leather and jewel-toned furniture is mixed with a few tables, laid out so that people can gather with one another. The shop is busy with people, and the instrumental Christmas music can barely be heard over their conversations and occasional laughter.
“Well if it isn’t two of my favorite people,” a man who I recognize as Joe says, chuckling from behind the counter. “Can I get you both your usual?”
Usual? We have usuals here?
“Sure,” I say, looking over at Claire and lifting an eyebrow. “Thank you.”
