“Do. Not.” His words come out forced, one syllable at a time. The pain on his face is still there, but his eyes soften as he pulls my arms down. “Your hair is perfect.”
The familiar stoney look on his face finally registers when I feel a twitch on my arms, resistance fighting at his fingertips. It’s the same look he has when I tempt him with mint-chocolate-chip ice cream—his greatest weakness.
My greatest weakness is cream cheese, which is a problem for a vegan, both physically and ethically.
I dip my eyes to the slope of Malcolm’s bicep and clock a light-blue vein stretching up the inside of his arm. I can’t resist the urge to graze my fingers down the line of it, feeling the pulsing of his blood under my touch. It’s quite possible his arms are becoming one of my weaknesses. “Thank you.”
We both watch as I trail my fingers up and down his arm, like I’m committing it to memory or something. Malcolm clears his throat and whispers, “You’re gonna be late.” He keeps watching my fingers, my sparkly nail polish flickering with the motion. Lowering his arms away from mine, he gives me one last double squeeze. “Have fun.” His forced smile wavers as his voice cracks ever so slightly.
“Are you sure you—”
“Kate,” he stops me before I can finish. “Quit.”
In a moment, my life flashes before my eyes. Dramatic? Maybe. But when Malcolm reaches up, brushing the sides of my neck with his knuckles and drawing small lines along the edge of my jaw with his thumb, the only thing to do is think dramatically.
All the air leaves my body, and I feel like I’m floating as his fingers rest against my face, like I’m a balloon, and he’s the one tethering me to the ground. Again, dramatic, but our faces are so close. His grip is a tender control that sends an ache down to my core.
“Quit doubting me. Quit doubting yourself. Go, eat your weight in pizza, and come back here to tell me all about it.” The line of silver that circles the bright blue of his eyes flickers once, growing larger the longer he stares at me.
I simply nod, and he releases my face.
He releases the balloon.
I still feel like I’m floating when I walk up to the address Eric sent me for dinner. The outside of the building isnotwhat I saw online. Rod iron sconces sit on each side of a rather large, antique door, which opens as I approach, and a short gentleman wearing all black waves me in. The walkway of the restaurant is dimly lit with deep maroon walls and an antique couch sitting perpendicular to the host stand. Sounds of Europe play in a soft symphony overhead. A couple waiting to be seated is wearingwhat I would call church attire, the man’s button-up jacket matching the woman’s dark-blue floor-length dress. My mouth goes dry as my underdressed self follows the host to our table.
The tables have place settings with small candles sitting in the center and fancy glass decanters of water. Eric is waiting for me, wearing a button-up that is oddly similar to the man at the front, his eyes widening at the rips over my knees and the bright-pink Converse squeaking across the tile floor as I approach.
“You look nice.” He gestures to me, clearly sarcastic and proud of this little mishap.
“You said Tony’s Pizza,” I snip at him then smile gracefully at the host as he pulls my chair out for me. “Not Rome, Italy.”
“Antonio’s Pizzeria,” he corrects. “Tony’s Pizza is onSouthMain. This isNorthMain.” Laughing, he drapes a cloth napkin in his lap and begins pouring us water.
I gape at him then quickly snap my jaw shut and glare. He continues to snicker as he hands me a menu, getting a kick out of my blunder.Hilarious.“At least I made it.” I snatch the menu from his hand and flip it open.
We go about the usual dinner steps—ordering an appetizer, then our meal, discussing how the day went, etc. It’s pleasant, but I feel distracted and uninterested. A pair of blue eyes and bulging biceps force their way into my vision every few minutes. I start to think I’m hallucinating when I mistake someone for Malcolm sitting in the back corner of the restaurant. I realize it can’t be him when the man has a pair of orange-tinted creeper glasses on, a fedora, and tinsel strands entwined in his beard. He’s also hunched over a plate of lettuce, eating with leather gloves on. Definitely not Malcolm.
I finish my part of the appetizer and notice the guy isstaringat me. Weirdo.
The waiter brings our orders, and Eric excuses himself to the restroom. In a rare moment of bravery, I shift in my seat andstare at the creeper, stating with my eyes,Got a problem, pal?He cowers further down into his bowl of lettuce, pinning his eyes on the dessert menu.
Quiet laughter grows louder behind me.
A partition in the center of the seating area with lush greenery separates one side of the room from the other. The dim lighting makes it difficult to make out faces, but a head of spiky black hair catches my attention. Glancing back at the creeper for a moment, at ease when I see he’s more focused on ordering his dessert than me, I slide out of my chair and walk over in a crouch to the partition, catching a few concerned glances along the way.
The laughter fizzles, followed by whispers that sound all too familiar the closer I get.
Reaching up to the top of the partition, I stay bent over as I grip the edges of the fake ferns. Shoving the greenery to the side, I jump up and yell, “Aha!” Five familiar faces stare at me in terror as I stand on my tiptoes to scold them over the partition. “Not very sneaky, are we, boys?” I catalog each person in attendance: Garrett Connors, Devon Johnson, Travis Van, Charlie Henders, and—I gasp in betrayal. “Sarah?”
She cowers down and pulls the furry hat she thought was a good disguise farther down in front of her face. “They made me come,” she says behind Garrett’s shoulder.
“What gave us away?” Devon asks, pushing his ridiculous disguise glasses to the top of his head.
“Travis’s hair.” I shrug and rest my arms on the partition, my calves aching as I stay firmly on my toes.
The table groans, throwing their napkins and swatting at Travis. Charlie tries to flatten the spikes down, but Travis waves him off, smoothing the edges and tips with his fingers.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask the table.
