“You have kind of a sweet tooth, don’t you?” I asked as I watched his beautiful hands expertly grip the wheel.
He slid me a side-eye. “After one taste of you, I might have developed one. Yes.”
My eyes roamed the ceiling of his pickup. “Where do you pick up these lines?”
Tapping the side of his head with his index finger, he said, “I don’t use all this massive brainpower solely to solve chemistry problems.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t quit your day job.”
My sardonic tone pulled a laugh from him. But maybe he picked up on the little shiver that stole over me at his words.
The Pickle Barrel was a tiny hole-in-the-wall only about a block from my dorm. Its size and location were two reasons I frequented it to the point the sandwich makers knew my order the second I walked through the door.
“Half a Beach Comber, hold the onions!” called the skinny girl whose name tag read “Anna” from her place behind the register.
Finn glanced around the space. Both indoor tables were weirdly empty on a Sunday afternoon. He looked back at me. “Is that your order?”
“Yes.” I peeked at him from beneath my brows. “I might get that every time I come in.”
He smirked. “Alrighty then.” Stepping up to the register, he perused the colorfully scripted menu on the chalkboard behind the counter and said, “Add a full South of the Border Cheesesteak and three monster cookies.” He pulled his wallet from his jeans pocket.
“Anything to drink?”
“Got it covered.” He turned to me. “Unless you have a regular drink too?”
“I’m good,” I said, pulling my wallet from the pocket of my hoodie.
Swamping my hand with his, he pushed it and my wallet back toward my waist. “I got this.”
“We’re studying together. It’s not a date,” I protested. “You don’t have to pay for my lunch.”
“Not up for debate, babe.” He tapped his card on the reader and put it back in his wallet.
Shaking my head, I mumbled, “Not necessary.”
Putting a hand to his ear, he asked, “What was that?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Thank you.”
His gorgeous whiskey-colored eyes warmed. “You’re welcome.”
As we headed over to his place, the heavenly scent of sautéed peppers and cheesy meat from his sandwich permeated the interior of the cab, causing my stomach to rumble.
“Is this a thing with you?” he teased.
I crossed my arms over my middle and willed my stomach to be quiet. “Asks the guy who eats half a pizza for a snack.”
“Point taken.” He smirked.
A few minutes later, he swung his truck in behind another truck already parked in the long driveway fronting the old Victorian where he lived. A Mustang was parked beside it, and I couldn’t decide if I was glad or not that two of his roommates were home. The hand-holding and buying me lunch felt more like a date, but the presence of roommates signaled “study session only.”
Finn grabbed the bag containing our lunch and hopped out of his truck, jogging around the front of it to open my door for me even before I’d unbuckled my seat belt.
“Thank you,” I said as I snagged my backpack from the floor at my feet and followed him up the steps into the house.
In the foyer he toed off his boots and set them neatly on a rug in front of a closet, so I did the same. Then he led me through the eerily silent living room to the kitchen where he set our lunch on the table in the corner. Glancing over at me, he said, “Oh, hey. Let me grab those for you.”
He tugged my backpack off my shoulder and held out his other hand for my jacket then disappeared back into the living room. A few seconds later I heard the creak of the stairs as he jogged up them. Guess we were studying in his room. A door closed, and next I heard him thunder back down the stairs. For a big man, he was deceptively quick.
