“You can’t—that’s not—”
The barista is paying more attention to Salinger who flashes her a dazzlingly sexy smile.
“Yeah, let’s see some ID,” the barista breathes.
“Oh, for goodness sake, this is absurd,” I interject.
“Lady, you’ll get your drink in a minute. I’m trying to deal with something here.” Not-Mac is annoyed.
“So, you don’t have any ID.” Salinger has on his I’m-about-to-win smirk.
“I used a fake name,” Not-Mac admits.
“He’s embarrassed, or he’s planning something shady,” Salinger tells the barista.
She’s really trying hard not to bury her face in his neck and breathe in that intoxicating smell of him. I know this because that was me earlier, in the car.
“If you don’t have an ID, then it’s not your drink,” the barista says to Not-Mac.
Not-Mac is incensed. “My drink? I paid for it!”
“Do you have a receipt?” the barista asks Salinger.
“Me? Don’t I look like a Mac?” Salinger swipes off his sunglasses and give the barista a smoldering, panty-dropping look.
She nods slowly. “Yeah, you’re definitely a Mac. Enjoy your drink. It’s my favorite, nice and creamy and a little bit salty.”
Salinger licks his lips. “I’ll try not to spill it. Don’t want to waste a single drop.”
This man.
“Have a beautiful day,” he purrs, winks, then saunters past the man whose coffee he just stole.
I trot after him. “You can’t do that.”
Salinger plucks the last straw out of the dispenser.
I refuse to accept the drink he holds out. “Oh my gosh, you need to give that back. I can’t believe this! I’m an accessory to a crime. Also, Pepper didn’t get her Puppuccino, so we have to stand in line anyway.”
Wordlessly, he holds up a whipped-cream-filled cup.
“Where did you…” I look around wildly.
“Don’t ask.”
“Remind me to never play poker with you.”
“Yeah, bad idea. You’d lose your shirt.” He smirks and slips on the sunglasses. “Come on—you know you’re craving something creamy and salty.” He waves the oversized cup at me.
I really shouldn’t, but I need that coffee. I take it from him and suck down the sweet liquid greedily.
His mouth is slightly parted as he watches my lips pop off the straw.
“I hope you’re not waiting on me to say ‘thank you,’ because I won’t.”
“Oh my god.”Jess’s eyes narrow when I set my empty Starbucks cup on my desk and dump my purse on the floor. “That’s a man’s shirt.”
“No, it’s not.”
