His head snapped up, his eyes locking onto mine. “With that guy? The one from downstairs?”
“His name is Trevor. And yes.”
“James—”
“Don’t.” I held up a hand, cutting him off. “Whatever you’re about to say, just don’t. I’m going on this date, and you don’t get a say in it.”
“I’m not trying to stop you. I just…” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear on his face. “I just don’t trust him.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Exactly. You don’t know him either. He could be?—”
“Could be what, Kent? A serial killer? A stalker? Or maybe just a normal guy who wants to get coffee with me?” I stood up, my anger flaring again. “You need to stop projecting your weird paranoia onto my life. I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.” I walked over to the counter and grabbed my headphones, jamming them on my head. “If you want someone to protect, go fix your shit with Brittany.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but I turned away from him. A moment later, music filled my ears and whatever he might’ve tried to say was drowned out by the synthwave. I grabbed my stylus and began to draw, intent on finishing these client concepts or at least looking busy enough that Kent would leave me the fuck alone.
And, thanks to some higher power I didn’t understand, Kent didn’t bother me.
Maybe he was finally starting to take a fucking hint.
Chapter 10
James
Isipped my iced coffee, savoring the bittersweet flavor as Trevor talked about his workout goals. That topic seemed to be particularly interesting to him.
“And that’s when I realized that progressive overload was the key,” he said, flexing his forearm unconsciously. “You can’t just keep doing the same weight every week and expect results.”
I nodded, watching his lips move. He had a nice genuine smile, even if the words coming out of his mouth weren’t exactly riveting. I wondered if he could tell I was only half-listening, or if he cared.
“What about you?” Trevor asked suddenly, leaning forward. “Do you work out at all?”
The question caught me off guard. I set my coffee down too quickly, and a drop splashed onto the table between us.
“Not really,” I admitted, grabbing a napkin to wipe it up. “I mean, I walk a lot. Does that count?”
He laughed. Not mockingly, but warmly, like I’d said something charming instead of pathetic. “Walking’s great. Underrated, actually. A lot of people don’t realize how important it is for recovery. You can get a lot of work done just by putting in more steps every day.”
There it was again. That kindness. The way he didn’t make me feel small for not living at the gym like he did. My last ex would have made a comment about my sedentary lifestyle, would have suggested Itake better care of myself. But Trevor just smiled and took another sip of his protein shake, which he’d ordered in place of actual food.
“So, what do you do for fun?” I asked, trying to steer us toward safer territory. “Besides the gym, I mean.”
Trevor’s brow furrowed slightly, and for a moment I worried I’d insulted him. Then his face brightened.
“I actually really like cooking,” he said. “Meal prep, mostly, but I’ve been trying to get more creative with it. Last week I made these turkey meatballs with a homemade marinara that turned out pretty good.”
I blinked. That was...notwhat I’d expected. “Really? That’s cool. I’m sorta terrible in the kitchen.”
“I could teach you sometime,” he offered, and there was something hopeful in his eyes that made my chest tighten. “If you wanted, I mean. No pressure.”
The napkin in my hand had become a damp, twisted thing. I set it down and forced myself to meet his gaze. He meant it. This wasn’t some line or a way to get me back to his apartment. He genuinely wanted to spend more time with me, doing something he enjoyed.
“I’d like that,” I said, and was surprised to find I meant it.
Trevor’s smile widened, and he reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine for just a second before pulling back. The touch was brief, tentative, but it sent a small thrill through me anyway.
“Cool,” he said, and there was a boyish quality to the way he said it that made him seem younger than his twenty-eight years. “Maybe this Sunday?”
