“I…uh…I mean, it’s not pineapple-on-pizza serious, but it’s a pretty big one.”
“Right, so…pineapple or no pineapple?” I ask, beyond curious.
Everett genuinely looks concerned as he considers his answer.
“P-pineapple,” he finally admits, although it’s with a wince.
“Right,” I muse, trying really hard not to give my own opinions away.
“Bea?” he whispers, begging for my answers.
“Well…I regret to inform you that…I’m also a dog and pineapple person.”
“Yes,” he barks before he wraps me in a hug and spins me around, garnering much more attention than either of us wants. “Shit, sorry. Got excited,” he confesses sheepishly. This version of Everett Donnelly is so far removed from the one I met that night. His ego is nowhere in sight, and his confidence isn’t even close to arrogance. He’s sweet, and endearing, and funny, and…well, he’s growing on me a little too quickly.
Our game continues as we make our way toward the counter. If his earlier outburst made anyone recognize him, then they’ve decided to give us our privacy, because no one has interrupted.
“What can I get you?” the girl behind the counter asks. My eyes are firmly locked on the boards above her head, so I initially miss the way she’s checking Everett out.
“Please could I get a—” My words falter when I catch the way she’s gazing at him—like he just hung the moon. Now, don’t get me wrong, the guy is hot as fuck. But drooling, especially while working in a food establishment, really isn’t a good look.
Concerned as to why I’ve stopped, Everett looks at me.
“If you can’t decide, I’d go with the deluxe. It’ll probably be too much, but it’s so good,” he says as if nothing is amiss. Which, I guess in his world, it isn’t. He must get hit on everywhere he goes. It shocks me that Mr. Fuckboy Donnelly misses it, though.
“Okay, baby,” I say as I step closer and wrap my arm around his waist. “I’ll go for that.”
What the fuck are you doing, Beatrice?
Why don't you just hike your dress up and pee on him and stake your claim?
He gives me a double take, but he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arm around my shoulder, holding me as close as possible while we finish placing our order.
The girl seems to get the message. She taps our order into her screen and Everett pays, just like he has all night, before I even get a chance to offer.
Only a few minutes later, we’re walking out of the small shop with our warm waffles, fully loaded with ice cream, chocolate sauce, marshmallows, and chocolate flakes, in hand.
“This way,” Everett says before leading me back toward the shore.
Thoughts of my ice cream melting make me want to stop right here on the sidewalk and demand we just eat, but I hold in my inner toddler.
The second my ass hits the bench, though, I throw the lid off and dive in.
“Owmygodthisissogood,” I mumble around a mouthful.
When I glance over, I find that Everett hasn’t even opened his. He’s too busy watching me.
“What?” I ask once I’ve swallowed. “Do I have sauce on my chin?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Don’t let yours melt. Eat.”
He smirks before turning to his container. I dig back into mine, humming happily when the mix of hot and cold, chocolatey goodness coats my tongue. But as good as it is, it doesn’t distract me from the moment Everett tenses beside me.
“What? What’s wrong?”
He’s staring at something on the other side of his container that I can’t see.
