Page 100 of Muddy Messy Love

“Thanks.” Hannah sighs, then turns to leave the room, but I call out her name. She spins back around, her brows high in question.

“You know, I could always phone mystery man. Pretend I have the wrong number. Ask who I’m speaking to.” After all, one phone call won’t kill me.

She stares at me, her brain ticking behind narrowed eyes. “You think that’d work?”

“It might. In any case, we have nothing to lose.”

Her eyes glimmer like sapphires when she smiles. “Tonight?”

I nod and grin. “Tonight.”

One greasy chow mein noodle slops against my chin, and another splats to the dusty studio floor where I sit cross-legged. The rest, by some sweet miracle, land in my mouth. Discreetly, I clean up my mess, hoping it went unnoticed, but Cole lets out a wheezy snort. “You eat like a tornado. You know that?”

I do. It’s a symptom of a mind always elsewhere. I tilt my head to the side and look up. “Can’t you pretend not to notice for once and leave me with some dignity?” I twirl my plastic fork in his direction. “We can’t all exude grace and show off our dexterity as we eat.”

Sitting on the workbench stool, Cole cocks a thick brow, then frowns at the chopsticks perched in his fingers. Sculptures surround him, along with drip-stained buckets of glaze, crimped silver letters, and busy shelves. The top few buttons of his white shirt lie undone, offering a glimpse of pale-caramel skin and a dusting of dark hair. Oxford shoes rest on the chrome foot ring, and his black suit pants stretch over splayed knees. It’s yet another magazine-worthy scene. “They’re just chopsticks,” he says. “Sometimes I prefer them, but not to show off.”

I roll my eyes and dig back into my noodles. “Uh-huh.”

His amused stare twinkles in the last bands of sunset pushing through the shutters. “What?”

I can’t help but grin. “Why?”

“Why what?” Eyeing me quizzically, he grins too.

God, we’re adorable.

“Why do you prefer chopsticks? Explain yourself.” I suspect why, but I want to watch him squirm. I’ve been to Chinese restaurants with Beth, and you can taste the palpable pride wafting from that one white dude who’s mastered chopsticks and wants everyone to know. How do you spell…smug?

“Well, for one, they improve coordination. Secondly, they increase mindfulness while you eat, and lastly, it’s tradition with this cuisine.”

Damn it, I didn’t expect him to have sound reasoning, but of course he does—he’s Cole. I opt to mess with him anyway because it’s fun. “Oh, I believe you.”

He narrows his eyes. “What exactly are you implying?”

I swallow my last bite, then enclose my boring fork inside the small white box and close the lid. “You can’t tell me eating with chopsticks is preferable to a fork, even with all those alleged benefits. There’s another reason, you just don’t want to admit it.”

“Proven benefits—not alleged,” he corrects. “They become second nature. It’s really no big deal.”

I hold up my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “You don’t even feel a teensy bit clever? Are you telling me chopsticks don’t feed your ego at all?”

He rumbles a beautiful, deep laugh. “That’s ridiculous.” But a rosy tinge flushes his cheeks.

“Ha, I knew it!”

He slaps the chopsticks down on the workbench. “Please pass me my fork.”

I eye the plastic takeaway bag next to me but think better of it. “Oh no, I might be mad jealous, but I also find chopsticks in your manly hands sexy as fuck. No fork for you.” I wink at him, and his mouth tugs into a dirty smile.

“Language, Miss Masters.”

His low, gravelly voice tingles at the apex of my thighs, causing me to wriggle. I pretend I’m merely adjusting my position for comfort, but Cole knows better. His gaze darkens, and he winks back, fuelling my urge to crawl across the studio floor, Marilyn-style, and straddle his lap. But my phone vibrates against the wire rack and steals the spotlight. I check it.

Hannah:

Let me know the second it’s done!

It’s the fifth panicky DM Hannah’s sent since I left work. “Your sister’s a little nutty. You know that?” I rest my phone back down.

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