“I like sweet things,” he replies as a smile spreads across his mouth, nearly taking my fucking breath away. It’s downright impish, how his lips curl like that and how his cheeks round, emphasizing the angularity of his jaw and hairline. There’s also a faint outline of a dimple in one of his cheeks.
And he’s British too? His voice is smoother than melted chocolate, and just as decadent.
“So… do you want this sweet thing?” I ask slowly, letting the double entendre linger in the air between us.
His answering smirk just about melts me, as does the gentle cock of his head to the side that makes his hair fall into his eye. He gestures to the latte, indicating that I should go for it.
“And he’s chivalrous,” I grin.
“Actually, that’s not—”
“Here’s your latte, sir,” the barista says, sliding another cup towards my stranger.
When I lift my eyebrows, his smile turns rueful. “I admit, when I went for it, I only heard the latte part.”
“A plain latte? Ugh, boring,” I tease.
“Classic,” he counters.
A sense of déjà vu washes over me, prickling at the back of my brain.
You call it boring; I’d call it classic.
At the thought of SpyderMan, the smile freezes on my face. Suddenly, this exchange feels… weird. Wait, why do I feel guilty? Like just by being attracted to someone and having a playful, flirty conversation means I somehow cheated on SpyderMan or something? That’s kind of messed up. It’s not like I can just leave my life on hold, waiting for SpyderMan to cross the lines we’ve drawn in the hardware. I’d die in that chastity belt.
“Same word, different font,” I insist, shaking off the unwelcome feelings and anchoring myself back in the moment—the moment where this fine-ass British man is staring at me like I’m the crumpet for his tea. “Neither one meansfun.”
“Point taken. If I promise I’m more fun than my coffee order, would you let me take you out sometime?”
My heart thumps hard in my chest. Maybe I read into things too much, but to me there’s a world of difference between “would you like to go out with me” and “let me take you out.” Asking permission versus stating intention. The former is sweet and gentle; the latter is confident and assertive. And even though he kind of looks like the sweet, gentle nerd with his button-down and soft-spoken demeanor, there’s clearly something a bit more dominant lurking under the surface.
Sometimes, I really love the universe. Because somehow, when I’m ovulating and really horny and need it most, the universe has sent me a guy who’s interested in me. Ahotguy who looks like he knows how to fuck hard.
AndDios, do I need a hard fuck.
“You usually ask girls out before asking their names?” I challenge.
“Madison, right?” he says, but it’s not really a question.
The sound of my name on his lips in that silky, rich accent sends a shiver down my spine. Then, what he said catches up with me, and I frown. Just as I’mabout to ask how he knows my name, he looks down pointedly at the cup in my hands—the one that has MADISON written just under the rim, facing him.
I laugh. “Chivalrousandobservant? This just keeps getting better.”
“Oh my God, I feel like I’m watching a Hallmark movie,” someone whispers, just loud enough for both of us to hear it. My eyes dart over, and the older woman behind the counter is clutching the bottom of her apron and staring at the two of us with a keyed-up expression and a faint smile. “Your chemistry just electrocuted me from over there.”
We both huff a laugh and step to the side, creating some distance and getting out of the way of anyone else who needs to pick up their drink.
“Well,” I peer down at his cup, “Peter…”
He interrupts, like he’s expecting a brush-off for some unfathomable reason and wants to get ahead of it. “If you’re not sure, I’ll leave the ball in your court. Hand me your phone—I’ll add my number. You can let me know if you want to meet.”
Not just confident and dominant, but a little bit bossy? Oh, Petey boy, we’re going to have fun.
Fighting every horny cell in my body, I shake my head. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I won’t hand my phone or give my number to a stranger—not even one this devastating. After all, I’m sort of a criminal. What if he works with the police? I’d like to do a bit of research on this guy first.
“I’ll do it.” I create a new contact for him underFlick-the-Bean Peter, typing awkwardly with one hand. “Go ahead.”
He rattles off his number, and I add it, then tuck my phone into my purse. His eyes track the movement, which feels kind of weird. “Well, I’ve got to get going. Lovely to meet you, Madison.”
