We’re the only people left in the café.
Shit. How long have we been here?
Anthony follows my gaze. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”
“Story of my life.” I fidget with my napkin, tearing tiny pieces off the corner like it’s personally offended me. “But, um, if you’re not ready to call it a night… You bought me coffee and cake… It’s only fair that I invite you back to my place for some crappy instant coffee and, maybe, if there is any bread left, I could offer you some toast. Can’t guarantee that there will be any butter though.”
“You’re really selling it.”
“Well, I am studying marketing.”
He laughs, that deep throaty chuckle that makes me want to follow it down his throat.
His dark eyes meet mine. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”
The walk to my apartment is surreal. Anthony Devine is walking beside me through the streets of New York, hands shoved in his pockets, laughing at my commentary about the things we pass. A rat dragging an entire slice of pizza. A guy dressed as Elmo having an argument on his phone. Just normal NYC things.
“This is me,” I say when we reach my building. “Fair warning: it’s a fifth-floor walkup, and the stairs are held together by hope and questionable building codes.”
“I’ll risk it.”
By the time we reach my door, we’re both slightly out of breath. I fumble with my keys, very aware of him standing close behind me.
“Jade’s out,” I say as we enter. “She’s got a study group that usually turns into going clubbing…”
“Cool.”
We stand there awkwardly in my tiny living room. This is Anthony Devine. In my apartment. Looking at my hand-me-down furniture and the water stain on the wall.
“So, do you want that cup of coffee?”
His dark eyes are watching me intently. “Am I going to need to stay awake for a while yet?”
I turn the heat up in my own gaze. “Yeah, you are.”
“Okay, then you better make me a cup.”
I grin and head to the kitchen. When I come back with two mugs of definitely not-great instant coffee, he’s looking at Figgy Smalls on our bookshelf.
“Is this Figgy Smalls?”
“In all his dying glory, yeah.”
“He looks better in person.”
“Liar.”
He takes a sip of the coffee and winces. “This is…definitely coffee.”
“I warned you.”
“You undersold how bad it would be.” But he’s smiling as he sets the mug down, and I abandon mine next to his without even pretending I’m going to drink it.
“Want to see my room?” I ask, then immediately cringe. “That sounded less like a bad line in my head.”
He grins. “I’d love to see your room.”
My bedroom is messy, but that’s not what draws my attention. Instead, it’s my collection of Anthony Devine posters that I definitely should have taken down before bringing Anthony Devine to my room.
