“Triple grande Americano,” he said. “And two cinnamon rolls.”
“Sure. And the name?”
My scoffing laugh went unappreciated by the cashier. Come on!
“Jason,” he said with an easy smile as he tapped the payment receiver with his phone. His case was covered in butterfly stickers, which I would have not considered on brand for a hulking brute that stalked the defensive line like he was protecting his genitals.
The cashier handed off his cinnamon rolls, and we stepped aside to wait for the drinks.
“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He leaned against the back of the espresso bar, as if propping up this heavy piece of machinery with his brutish bulk.
“Triple grande? That’s what—four shots of espresso?”
“Uh huh.”
“That’ll affect your sperm count.”
His brow crumpled. “What?”
“Didn’t you read that in Scientific American?”
“Must have missed that issue.” He took out a cinnamon roll and passed the other one in the bag to me. “I know you’re a fan.”
That gave me the perfect opening. “I just spoke with your brother. We’ve smoothed things over, and he explained his reasoning for denying my request.”
“His new relationship.”
“Right. If I’d known, I would never have dreamed of asking.” Maybe we weren’t as close as I thought.
Jason seemed to read my mind. “Well, he didn’t tell me either until last night. I’m guessing it’s so new he wanted to nurture it in secret for a while.”
Nurture in secret. That’s what I would have liked to do with my plan. But now it was out there, common knowledge, and people were going to have opinions. The longer I went unpregnant, the more pathetic I looked.
“Continue.”
“What’s that?”
“This apology of yours.”
“What apology?”
I rolled my eyes. “You said—wait, isn’t that what you said?”
His eyes did that twinkling thing again, like glittering Christmas lights. Not attractive. Not. Attractive.
“Yeah, I said. I stuck my nose in there the other night. Not my circus, so yeah. Sorry.”
Worst. Apology. Ever. But about what I would expect.
“Jason?” Two of the drinks appeared on the counter, quickly followed by my tea. I noticed the barista had scrawled a series of numbers on his cup. Her digits, I assumed.
He handed off the Matcha latte to me. “So that’s your drink, huh?”
More passive-aggressive digs at my caffeine ingestion. “It’s Violet’s, actually. I’m drinking Jasmine tea, which is very low in caffeine. Though usually I prefer Earl Grey, which has slightly higher caffeine content.”
And now I was rambling. I never rambled.
A smile touched his lips. “So I kind of stuck my nose in there, too.”
