The second he said it, he glanced—just barely—over his shoulder at me.
My tongue slid over my teeth. Of all the dirty, no-good, un-Christmas-like things to do, he was stealing my cream puffs!
“You don’t even like them,” I hissed.
He turned. “What was that?”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t. I was too busy anticipating the taste of my breakfast.”
“You don’t even like eggnog,” I ground out.
He feigned surprise even though his eyes danced with laughter. “What? Of course I do.”
Liar. I was shocked his pants weren’t on fire.
I stepped closer, angling my chin down. “What the hell, Archer? You do not. Those are my favorite.”
For a moment, he just stared at me, the mere inches between us suddenly feeling compressed. But then he pulled away, blinking as though he hadn’t felt it at all. “Well, today they’re my favorite.”
“Order up,” Bab said, placing a coffee and a brown paper sack in front of him on the counter.
Archer handed over his money and grabbed the sack, shoving his hand inside to come out with one of the cream puffs. He turned but didn’t walk away, and I felt a spark of hope and maybe relief that he was going to give it to me.
That spark withered as he held my stare, raised the cream puff, and shoved half into his mouth.
I was pretty sure the corner of his eye twitched because, like I said, he did not like eggnog. But he covered it up by shoving the rest of the pastry into his giant lying piehole.
“Sooo good.” He groaned, chewing extra loud.
I scowled.
“You really should get one of these,” he told me.
I scowled harder.
“That’s it until next year.” Babs chimed in from behind.
Archer grinned. “Oh, right.” Pulling the remaining cream puff from the bag, he took a big bite. “Well. Maybe next year.”
I thought about shoving what was left of that delicacy right in his face. Smearing it all around.
It would be a crime against desserts everywhere.
Instead, I stood there watching him eat something he hated just so I couldn’t have it.
Sure, he’d been icy since the mistletoe raising a few weeks ago. And sure, I knew our relationship had changed. But I’d still held out hope we could recover.
But now I knew we wouldn’t.
He’d declared war and used an eggnog cream puff to do it.
“See ya later, Thomas,” he said, smacking his lips as he shouldered past me.
Thomas. Not Toby or Tobes.
“Oh. You’ll be seeing me,” I intoned, vowing to get my revenge.
