Iggy took my hand, just like he had so many times before, and led me inside. Since it was a weekday, the place wasn’tcrowded, though a few tables were filled. He guided me to an empty corner table he’d spotted, and I took a moment to look around.
The space was bright and airy, with a huge window that framed the street outside. The walls were pastel pink, with floral wallpaper behind the counter, and the counter itself was painted a soft blue with a white-and-pink marble top. Fairy lights traced the edges of the room, while blue and pink lampshades hung overhead. Every table was a different pastel shade, each chair its own colour, arranged with no apparent rhyme or reason. It looked like a Lisa Frank fever dream had exploded inside, and the owners had decided that was the aesthetic.
And yet, despite the chaos, there was a softness to it, a kind of quirky charm. Much like the guy sitting opposite me, lips pursed in a very duck-like pout as he studied the menu.
Iggy had swapped his tiny cotton shorts for a pair of high-waisted denim ones—only slightly longer, still showing plenty of leg but cutting down the risk of flashing a passerby. I couldn’t imagine myself in them, but somehow, they suited him. The tie-dye shirt had been replaced with the same cropped powder-blue hoodie he’d worn the night he arrived, and on his feet were a pair of black Converse. His hair stayed in the same messy bun, but he’d added a touch of makeup—something to hide the dark circles from this morning—a subtle shimmer on his lids, and gloss that made his lips gleam.
“Come on, then,” I said, looking down at the menu. “What should I be ordering?”
Iggy lowered his menu and tapped the photo of a dark, almost brooding drink that looked wildly out of place in this pastel palace. “Café noir.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You made me walk twenty minutes to order a black coffee?”
“I know what it sounds like?—”
“Yeah,” I said, folding my arms. “Like you made me walk twenty minutes to order a black coffee.”
“Listen, sassy,” Iggy said, leaning forward and tapping the photo again, more insistently this time. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. Take a leap of faith, yeah?”
I sighed, putting my menu down and leaning back, arms crossed. “Fine. I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Good choice,” he said with that grin that never failed to annoy and delight me at the same time. “Also, people rave about their pistachio cruffins.”
“What the fuck is a cruffin?” I asked, and Iggy burst out laughing, the sound making something flutter in my chest.
“It’s a hybrid between a croissant and a muffin,” he explained, wiping at his eye. “I tried one in London and it was delicious, but I bet it’s nothing compared to this.”
“Just a poor imitation, I’m sure.”
“Exactly,” he said. Iggy pushed his chair back and stood. “I’ll go order.”
I shifted in my seat and reached for my wallet, tucked in the pocket of my jeans. But before I could get my fingers around it, Iggy leaned over and placed his hand on my wrist. The move brought him close, and when I looked up, the strands that had escaped his bun brushed my cheek. This close, I could see flecks of gold scattered through the green of his irises, like sunlight caught in moss. And when he tipped his head, I caught the sweet scent of peaches and cream—the same as he’d smelled at the Willow.
“I’ve got it,” he said, patting my hand. “I invited you, so it’s my treat.”
Before I could respond, he straightened and sauntered over to the counter, where he greeted the server with a bright smile.Watching their animated exchange, I wondered if he spoke any French. Given his ballet past, it didn’t seem impossible.
When he returned and slid into his seat, I asked, “Do you speak French?”
He snorted, shaking his head. “Fuck no.”
“I thought you did ballet?”
Iggy raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you remembered. I was convinced you’d forgotten all about me, and that’s why you were avoiding me.”
Guilt twisted in my chest like a knife, and I lowered my eyes to my clasped hands. “I... um, I mean...” I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t?—”
“Cut the crap, Just Bodhi.”
My eyes snapped up. Iggy was smirking, drumming his purple painted nails against the table like he had all the time in the world. “It’s obvious you were avoiding me. I’d have been stupid to miss it.” His fingers stilled, and he lifted a brow. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, I?—”
“Okay, glad we cleared that up.” He lifted his hand and inspected an invisible chip in his polish. “So, why were you avoiding me? And don’t lie. I’ll know.”
“You will?” I narrowed my eyes. “How?”
His smirk widened into something warm and teasing. “You fiddle with your nose ring.”
