I groan. “Please, don’t.” That could mean anything. I bet he’d charm the barista into letting him spit in my coffee or somethingludicrous. If he ruins coffee for me, I’ll do hard time for him, and they’ll never find his body.
Fact.
He holds his hand up. “Truce. At least for the duration of a cup of coffee.” The light catches his skin, and I can’t hold back the giggles as he sparkles like a disco ball. Seems we both struggled to scrub off the glitter.
“Truce?” He repeats, tilting his head. He doesn’t move.
I get another kick under the table. “Answer the man.”
I nod.
“Use your words, Pitstop.”
Karlya’s mouth twitches. He’s got her. She’s officially on his side. I could scream.
“Truce.”
I’d love to say I don’t feel the stares of his teammates from a few tables away. They sat far enough away to be seen as not spying, but also close enough that they can watch everything that transpires.
“A midnight rain, for the lovely Karlya.” When he returns from the counter, he places an enormous Frappuccino brimming with whipped cream down on the table in front of her.
“What is it?” Her eyes light up as she sticks her finger in the cream.
“Blueberry Frappuccino.”
“From the Tay-Swift menu?”
He nods.
“I don’t get the reference. Is there a reason you picked this one?” She creases her brow.
I refuse to meet either of their questioning stares.
“I won’t bite unless she begs for it.” He winks at Karlya.
“Oh.” Karlya eyes me over the top of her drink as she takes a noisy slurp. After smacking her lips she nods. “She’ll beg alright. I have faith in your skills, fly boy.”
Sweet mother of all the pop stars. Whose fucking side is she on? Clearly not mine.
“And for you, Pitstop...” He wiggles his brows. “I couldn’t pick one. So you’ve got Drunk on Jealousy. This one’s got a shot of Irish liqueur in it. Figured you might need that afterShe who shan’t be named.” He slides it across the table. “And Blank Space Brew.”
It takes me a minute, but from the pink staining this hockey god’s cheeks, it hits me. He’s a fucking Swiftie. And each of these drinks carry meaning. Well. Two can play at that game, and no one can out Swiftie me.Especiallynot Tate fucking Myers. “Is this your way of telling me you like leopard print?”
“For you, dear Aphrodite, I’d make it work.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh! Maybe you’re telling me you don’t like your car.” My nose twitches. I was never an aggressive person until I met this asshole. And now, at the idea of keying his car, or smashing it to pieces with a golf club, my fingers itch.
“Always the violence with you, Pitstop.” He licks his lips. “So hot.”
Karlya snickers. “Didn’t you get yourself a drink?”
I bounce up out of my chair, not to be outdone. “I’ll grab one for you.” I already know which one I’m getting him. The bitterest drink on the fucking menu. And I hope he chokes on it.
A few minutes later, when I place Bad Blood in front of him, his nose twitches, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “Black, like my girl’s soul. I like it.”
He dumps a mountain of sugar into the mug, stirs it, and takes a sip. “I bet your soul tastes better.” He winks. Does nothing phase this guy?
Karlya watches with fascination, slurping on her Frappe.
