I pause, realize what I’ve implied, and shove a large helping of Danish into my mouth. Zander silently laughs at me while I struggle to chew. He nudges my coffee toward me as I choke on crumbs.
“Thank you,” I say, coughing. I take a sip, savouring the foamy oat milk. “I’m not proposing marriage. Only making fun of, what I assume is, tea.”
He glances down at his white coffee cup wrapped in a pink cardboard sleeve. The string from a teabag hangs out one side.
“Do you have some sort of beef with tea?”
“Coffee is the superior writing drink.”
“If it helps, this is earl grey. So, black tea.”
“That does not help because it means nothing to me.”
“Have you—have you never had tea before?”
I place my remaining square of Danish onto the napkin and brush my hands together. There’s a twinkle in Zander’s eyes. They catch me. Make me dissolve into a fit of giggles, eventhough nothing is really that funny. I’m just giddy with the idea of him.
“Shut up,” I say, shielding my face from him so he can’t see how flaming red I am. “You’re not allowed to judge me for being a hater.”
“I won’t if you’re a hater with foundation. Here,” he says, nudging his tea toward me, “Try it.”
I wrap my fingers around his cup. “If this is terrible, can I throw it at you?”
“I’ll allow it.”
He sits perfectly straight, broad shoulders back, head tilted slightly to the left. His hands are splayed on the table. The confidence is hot, and I desperately want to prove him wrong, if only to see him in a wet T-shirt.
I bring the cup to my lips, take a sip, all under his intense gaze. My first thought is how intimate the action is. My lips where his were just moments before. The idea of his lips on mine sends shivers through my body. My next thought isshit.
“I don’t like it,” I say, sliding the cup across the table.
Zander smirks, drinks from his cup, covers the peach mark my lipstick made.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Good. You shouldn’t. I’m very untrustworthy.”
Chapter Eight
Zander
My plate is filled to the brim because Gran thinks I need to eat more. Her love language has been food since at least my early twenties. A nonnegotiable Saturday night dinner has been my constant for about ten years, and I can’t complain. A night of free food is something I won’t pass up. I felt this especially when I was fresh-faced and just figuring out how to navigate the world. I appreciate her still caring for me, even if I am partially convinced she’s trying to make up for past indiscretions. On a bad day, I’m certain all this is out of guilt.
On a good day, like today, I’m eternally grateful for her no matter what.
For good measure, I reach across the table and grab the mashed potatoes. I heap a spoonful on top of my pre-existing spoonful, then drown it in butter and gravy. Gran smirks.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re going through the motions, but I see you,” Gran says. She holds up her fork, lettuce and a cherry tomato skewered on it. “What’s got you sidetracked?”
I look down at my plate. I didn't think I was acting any differently, though I guess it was a little suspicious to drop Lucy off here then immediately head out again. I should have realized how that looks for a guy with no friends in Beaver Creek, and only a few outside of this small town.
I still go for coy, “Nothing.”
“You are too old to be acting this way,” Gran says. But it’s not an insult, or really a reprimand at all. It’s a reminder of how well she knows me and this town. “If it’s a girl, just say it’s a girl.”
“You know how it goes with me and women, Gran.”
