He pulls a horrified face. "No, you didn't."
I nod slowly, dead serious. "I'm afraid I did."
He takes in a long breath, shakes his head. "Why do you have to take pleasure out of everything?"
"Hah-hah." I deadpan. "They're for Richard. He's got a sweet tooth but wants to stay in shape." My voice dips on the last words when I notice the spark in Ben's face instantly dim.
His jaw tenses and he sets the cupcake down, any interest in it gone.
There's an awkward silence.
"Should I bring anything? I have some Reese's, maybe even Butterfinger. You like those," I saythen.
"No, it's fine," he says, his tone a bit flat as he aims toward the door. Then he softens a little. "What do you make for yourself?"
"Nothing special. I don't crave much."
"I noticed."
I roll my eyes. "Stop noticing bad things."
He cuts me a sideways glance. "You used to eat for two."
"Shut up," I say, shoving him out.
Luckily, the elevator arrives instantly. Mind you—that has never happened to me since the day I moved in here.
We step in and Ben presses the floor, smothering a smirk into his hand. "You'd always ask 'You don't want it anymore?'"
"Stop imitating me," I snap and pull my brows together, hollowing my cheeks in my best smoky-lounge-singer face. "I am way more sultry."
He barks a laugh, tugging my cheek out with one finger. "Sultry? You sounded like a baby bird. Which you are."
"I didnotsound like a bird," I say, faux-indignant.
His grin is crooked. "You totally did. And while I was distracted, you'd take the last third of my burger."
"Because you were slow."
"Because you were shameless."
The voice announcesUnderground ParkingandBen walks out with that easy, unbothered gait, leaving me behind in the boxy hum of the elevator.
"Where are we going?" I call after him.
"We're driving," he tosses over his shoulder, spinning keys on his finger.
I trail after him, my yellow heels clicking against cement until he stops at a car and my step falters. I gape. "No. Freaking. Way."
Ben walks to the front of his car, finger dragging across the black gloss like he's tracing a lover's spine.
"You got the Vignale Spyder?!"
His brow flicks up, playfully, and he smiles. "You thought I was bluffing? Told you I'd get it."
The car gleams under the white halogens—sleek, refined, rare. Just like its owner.
"You used to talk about this car like it was religion." I shake my head. "This is insane."
