“Is it?”
“Practical. No frills.”
“What about you?”
“Cream and sugar. Enough that it barely counts as coffee.”
His mouth curved. “That’s very human of you.”
“I have a weak constitution. I can’t handle the bitterness.”
“I don’t think you’re weak.”
The way he said it made heat pool low in my belly.
I set my empty plate aside and nudged the book on the counter. “Interesting topic.”
“You love antiques. I love history. I either read that or tactical analysis. Game tape breakdowns.”
“That’s depressing.”
“What do you read?”
“Romance novels where everyone gets a happy ending and nobody’s father finds out they’re sleeping with a player on his roster.”
The joke landed wrong.
Tolrek took my empty plate and set it beside his. “We have a week.”
“I know.”
“We don’t have to think about that conversation yet.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Are you succeeding?”
“Not even a little bit.”
He slid off the counter and turned to face me, his hands resting on either side of my hips. “I could distract you.”
My pulse kicked up. “How?”
“I have a few ideas.”
The counter put me at almost eye level with him, close enough to see the flecks of darker green in his irises. I could count the individual strands of hair that had fallen forward over his shoulders.
“I like your ideas so far,” I said.
“You haven’t heard them yet.”
“I’m extrapolating.”
His hands moved to my waist, stroking small circles through my shirt. “You do that a lot.”
“It’s my job.”
“What are you extrapolating now?”
