“Summer semester last year, end of July,” I continue. “Then again in March.”
He chuckles, allowing me to go to the order counter first when it’s his turn. “Okay, so what I’m hearing is I owe you wings. It’s a date.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I toss over my shoulder. “Can I get a mocha latte and a pumpkin spice latte to go? Thanks.”
Easton leans around me to hand the cashier his card before I have the chance to pay, rattling off his coffee order. I miss it, stunned by him paying for my drinks.
“What are you doing?”
“Buying your coffee.” He holds his hands up at the suspicious look I give him. “Just donuts, just coffee. Still no strings.”
“Next time, I’m paying.”
He smirks. “You’ve got it, baby. You’re making me wish I didn’t have to go get on the team bus. Can I see you next weekend? We’re having a party for one of the guys on the team.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “Still not saying yes.”
Easton shakes his head with a sly expression, lowering his voice to murmur near my ear so the barista giving him mooneyes doesn’t hear. “You’re going to be kicking yourself for holding out on me, baby. Once I show you what you’re missing, you’re going to wish you had it sooner. But that’s okay, it makes it more fun this way.”
I shiver, moving a few steps away. While he waits for his card back, he gives me one of his flirty once-overs I’m becoming familiar with. His eyes flick down my body with confidence, then meet mine again. The heat flaring in his gaze causes my breath to hitch as an excited pulse of warmth spreads through my stomach.
This is dangerous territory because Easton really is my type with his inviting blue eyes and the playfully cocky attitude that used to be my downfall. I was having fun last week with my dare, not expecting him to actually try to get with me. I remind myself of all my excellent reasons to not go for hockey players to keep myself from falling for his moves.
“Why are you so interested in me?” I ask once he gets the receipt for our coffees.
“Easy. I like your smile and I think we’d have fun together. I don’t give up easily when I know I like something.”
I laugh at the simplistic answer. “I’m not the type to hook up casually, so this is all pointless.” I gesture to the coffee counter. “You should really forget me. It’s not like hockey players have a lot of free time for girlfriends. Besides, I’m not sure those count as solid reasons to ask someone out. You don’t know me.”
“Yet,” he says pointedly, not put off. “I’m getting to know you.”
“Come on. What could you possibly have learned about me?”
“Plenty. You have killer dance moves and a sweet tooth.” He pulls a face and shrugs. “Shitty taste in college hockey teams. You’re a Bruins fan though, right? Please say yes.”
“Duh.” I smirk at his dramatic display of wiping his forehead and sighing in relief.
“Crisis averted. It would be so awkward if my girl didn’t cheer for me when I get signed to my dream team.”
I lift my brows and give an amused scoff. “Keep dreaming, hotshot. I’m not your girl.”
“Yet.” He winks.
Easton takes my hand to draw me over to the pickup counter. His is huge, engulfing mine with his warm callused fingers. He keeps doing stuff like that, touching me affectionately in small ways. He has conversations with his touch, whispering endearments and seductive promises.
I can’t tell if he’s just a handsy type of guy who likes a lot of physical contact or if this is another of his charm tactics.
He brushes his thumb across my skin, sending tingles spreading through me. I roll my lips between my teeth, ignoring my skipping heartbeat. I admired his big hands earlier in the week, remembering how it felt when he kept a secure grip on the back of my thigh the night he rescued me from the bar.
“Give me time because I’m still discovering more reasons whenever I see you,” he continues while our coffees are prepared, unaware of the effect those tiny caresses have on me.
The barista calls out my order first and sets it on the counter. Easton gets it for me, selecting one of the complimentary peppermint rod stirrers the shop puts out around the end of fall that I’m addicted to.
He pops it in, then offers me the drink. I blink at the cup.
He inclines his head. “What? You like mocha lattes with a real peppermint stick, not that fake crap big chains peddle.”
Something tightens in my stomach. It’s not anything special. Not even anything major to notice, yet my heart gives an insistent little thud.
