“I have tea?” Nicholas asks.
“I brought it,” Andrew answers, busying himself with wiping the counters. There’s nothing on them, but Nicholas suspects it’s better not to point that out.
“What kind is it?”
“Té de manzanilla,” Andrew answers, before clarifying, “that’s Spanish for chamomile. I always buy this brand at the local market, it was myabuela’sfavorite.”
“And the toast?” Nicholas prompts.
“Just cinnamon and sugar. It was my favorite when I was a kid and didn’t feel good. My dad cut it in little pieces because I didn’t like the way the cinnamon sugar dust would get everywhere when you bite the toast, and now it’s the only way I can eat it. I probably didn’t need to cut yours though, so let me make more.”
“The toast is fine, princess.”
Andrew makes a derisive noise, resuming his wiping of the very clean counter. The lines on his handsome face tighten, and Nicki makes a decision. A possibly stupid and reckless decision, but the one that needs to be made.
“You looked hot as fuck up in that private suite wearing my jersey.”
Andrew stops wiping the counter to glare at Nicholas. “Did someone hit you in the head during the game?”
The fact that this is Andrew’s response to being complimented has Nicholas unsure how to feel. Confused. Angry. Like he wants to keep this precious man and never fucking let anyone make him feel less than again.
“No.” He takes a single step closer to Andrew. “It looked good on you, then and now.”
The cloth in Andrew’s hand falls to the counter as he turns those big, brown eyes of his on Nicholas. There’s something there, confusion maybe, or fear. Nicholas is used to being able to read people, to being able to read Andrew, but this emotion is hard to parse.
“Don’t,” Andrew whispers, tone somewhere between demanding and pleading.
“Don’t what?” Nicki questions. “Tell you how much I liked you there at my game cheering for me? Tell you how perfect you looked—look—in my jersey. Tell you how you’re the only one I want wearing my number from now on?”
“You convinced everyone already, you don’t need to do this.”
“What are you talking about?” Nicholas questions.
“The suite, the showy kiss you blew me for the cameras, the jersey—all moves designed to get me on the big screen so people knew we were together. I’ll play that game for you Nicki, I know it’s what I signed up for. But here at home, don’t.”
“Andrew.”
Taking a shuddering breath, Andrew lifts those beautiful brown eyes of his, so rich and warm and so full of fucking hurt. “I know I’m not your type. You made that clear, so please don’t play games with me.”
“Who’s playing games?” Nicki moves towards Andrew, wanting so much to wrap him up in his arms but afraid to touch, too. Andrew looks fragile in a way Nicholas isn’t sure how to handle.
“Don’t,” Andrew begs.
“Princess.”
“Stop it.Stop pretending when there’s no one here.”
“I’m not fucking pretending.”
“Fuck you,” Andrew yells, some of that fire back in his eyes. “I can pretend with everyone else but not you.”
Suddenly, Nicki understands. He understands in crystal fucking clarity.
“Why not me, princess?”
“I don’t know why. It’s so easy with everyone else, but you do something to me, and it makes me so mad.”
“You can’t hide from me,” Nicholas says, crowding into Andrew’s personal space, slow enough he can move away if he needs to. Andrew doesn’t move a muscle, tilting his face up.
