He hefts his satchel. “I’ll put some papers on the table. We’re discussing coursework.” He smirks. “Maybe you’re a difficult student, and you need my help.”
I scoff and step into the café. The man is infuriating.
And that smirk does something fizzy to my insides that I would prefer not to acknowledge.
We go to the counter to order. I select a chocolate croissant and a white Americano, which is within my modest budget.
Rand frowns and grabs two chicken, basil, and avocado sandwiches from the fridge.
“Protein,” he says simply. “And make that Americano decaf.”
The barista eyes us warily, reading the tension between us as my will clashes with his.
“Do you want decaf?” she asks me.
Shock blanks my mind when Rand brushes his fingers over mine in a featherlight, brief touch, reminding me that I’m shaky.
I need fuel, not caffeine.
I edge away from him but say to the barista, “Decaf, please.”
“I’ll have the same,” Rand orders.
Before I can pull out my phone to pay, he taps his card.
“I was going to get mine,” I protest too late.
“You seem chronically incapable of accepting help,” he remarks.
“Maybe I just like contradicting you,” I quip instead of allowing the truth to cut me.
He chuckles, and the warm sound chases the last of the chill from my veins.
“Yes, you’re very good at that. If you think I’ll get annoyed and back off, I’m sorry to inform you that it won’t work. I like bantering with you. You’re stuck with me.”
God, that smile. It lights up his handsome face and hits me square in the chest. If I secretly thought his stern frown was sexy, his teasing grin is pure seduction.
I cut my gaze away, but I feel heat creeping into my cheeks.
Damn him for making me blush.
I stride to a corner table and hold my head high, as though he’s not completely scrambling my brain.
He waits at the counter for our drinks, giving me a merciful moment to collect myself.
I’ve mostly mastered my blush when he joins me and sets our coffees on the table, along with two large glasses of water.
I become acutely aware of how thirsty I am after my run, and I gulp down half the glass.
While I’m hydrating, he opens the wrapper on my sandwich and nudges it toward me.
I roll my eyes. “I’m not a child.”
His gaze holds mine for several thumping heartbeats. I get the acute sense that he’s studying me; he might as well be devouring me with his stare.
“I can see that,” he replies. “You’re nearly my age, and I’m not a boy.”
The way he says it in that deep tone reminds me all too well that Rand is aman.All six and a half hulking feet of him oozes masculinity. I’ve never shared a lunch date with a guy my age, but even if I had, they definitely would’ve been aboyin comparison.
