“That’s ominous.” I lean towards him, dropping my voice. “Are you a hitman? Mafia? Secret service?”
He barks out a laugh and fucking hell; the sound is gorgeous. “It’s notominousand I’m not a hitman or anything like that.” He’s smiling so brightly, the blues of his irises sparkle like ice. “I do a few different things.”
“Like?”
“Mostly, I work in a coffee shop, but I also volunteer at a local dog shelter.”
“Huh.”
“What?” Darius scratches behind the cat’s ear and it starts purring, loudly.
“Nothing. It’s just you’re wearing a nine hundred pound pair of Tom Ford jeans, and I’m pretty sure those shoes of yours at the front door cost more than my rent.”
“So, you’re a fashion expert now?”
I shake my head, using the hand not holding a bottle of beer to swipe my fringe from my forehead.
“I know things. Not just a pretty face.”
Darius narrows his eyes. “Judgyandconceited. Noted.”
That gets a laugh from me.
“I’m not judging. I just don’t understand how you afford all that on a barista’s salary.” I lean back on the sofa, taking another sip of my beer. “Unless you’re a sugar baby.”
Darius chokes on his drink, coughing before wiping the drips on his chin with the collar of his t-shirt.
“I’m nobody’s fucking sugar baby,” he laughs.
“Nepo baby, then?”
“Fuck you.”
I can’t help the smile that takes over my face, matching the one on his.
“I’ve got your number, Thorne-Sutton,” I say, tapping the side of my nose.
“No, you don’t.” Darius throws the lid of his beer bottle at me and it hits me in the chest before falling to my lap. “Shut up and watch the television.”
Leaning back with a sigh, I let my body sink into the sofa. Next to me, Darius does the same. The silence is thick between us, but it’s not awkward. It’s cosy and I find my eyes drifting shut, heavy after a strenuous day at work
“I’m sorry about your dad,” Darius says, pulling me from my doze, my eyes snapping open. His tone is solemn, the playfulness from earlier gone.
Turning my head on the back of the sofa, I find that he’s done the same, and the move brings our noses almost tip to tip, a slither of space between us.
“Thank you.” My throat tightens, and I swallow to ease the pressure.
“Do you want to talk about him?” Darius asks. “I’m a good listener.”
I roll my head on the sofa. “Not really. Can we sit here a little while longer and then I’ll go?”
It’s been an eternity since I felt this content to justexistand as good as his company feels, I’m not willing to open up more than I already have.
“Sure.” Darius uses the remote to click from one streaming service to another. “This is one I haven’t seen.” He presses play and we fall into that quiet comfort I am coming to like a little too much.
Stupid bloody heart.
Darius stretches his legs out, his foot kicking the pizza box in front of him.
