He visibly chafes at that, but keeps his mouth shut.
Giving him a smug look, I slide into the passenger seat. It smells like him—a thought that makes me flush the second I realize I know whathesmells like. Woodsy and piney with a hint of mint and soap. He gets in beside me, a stiff silence falling over us the moment the door clicks shut.
“You’ll have to direct me. I’m not familiar with any coffee shops around here.”
“You never stop and get coffee before work?”
“I don’t drink coffee before I skate. Only afterwards. And calling whatever you Americans brew coffee is an insult to the concept.”
I recall the way he looked at the pot I brewed and frown. “We have plenty of good coffee.”
“Where?”
“The Busy Bean has good coffee. Guaranteed.”
“And ifit doesn’t?”
There’s something almost threatening about the way he says it that makes something twist low in my belly. Serial killer energy.
Why the hell am I attracted to it? Must be all the lead paint my parents were raised with. The toxins compromised my brain in utero.
“Then I’ll buy you a beer,” I say to him. I hope I don’t look as flustered as I feel. Being alone with him unsettles me.
He doesn’t look at me as he shifts the car into gear, but I swear he’s fighting the ghost of a smile, and it feels like my first victory. Could this man possibly have a sense of humor?
The air around us is thick as soup for most of the ride, and we don’t make conversation as I direct him to the Busy Bean. I keep telling myself it’s a professional meeting with professional intentions, and that there’s no reason for it to be awkward. My eyes don’t listen, straying back to the way he grips the gear shift, how his long-fingered, vascular hand fully encompasses the stick. He has nice hands. I like the way they have a few scars along the knuckles.
“In here.” I point to the lot entrance. He parks the car and gets out, waiting for me to lead the way.
I shove away all thoughts of his hands, and who he might touch with them as I steer us inside.
Chapter 17
Mattias
Hearst has a disgusting sweet tooth. Somehow, I’ve found myself sitting across from her in a noisy, poorly-decorated cafe, and she’s slurping up one of those syrupy milkshakes Americans call coffee. She got a pastry, too—some sort of frosting-drenched scone masquerading as a cinnamon roll, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Baking something like that should be a crime.
I take a sip of my black, watered-down coffee and sit back in my chair, watching her.
“It’s not good,” I say. I can’t believe I’ve paid money for this—and for hers, too, because she couldn’t get her tap to work.
She shifts under my gaze and I raise a brow. “Oh, come on. It’s fine,” she insists.
Hearst looks unkempt in a way I should loathe as she slouches in the lounge chair across from me. There’s nothing polite or high society about the way she’s sitting in her pressed, sleeveless office dress, and I make a point not to look at where its hem rides up her thigh.
“That’s a crime against humanity.” I gesture to her drink.
She rolls her eyes. “You Europeans hate fun.”
“There’s nothing fun about inducing a heart attack.”
“Some of us are here for a good time, not a long time.” She takes a long, pointed sip from her straw. My eyes linger on the taut cupid’s bow of her lips. Her long-lashed gaze flickers up to mine, deceivingly innocent and sweet, and I feel my blood warm. I bite my lip and look away, pretending to be fascinated by the painting hanging behind her. Fuck me.
“What is it you’d like to discuss?” I say.
“You and me.”
My eyes snap back to hers.
