Page 54 of The Prom Queen Project
The café had a faint yellow glow with wooden pieces of furniture scattered around.
“Hey. You made it.”
“Yeah.” I smiled, shrugging off my coat and hanging it on the back of the chair. “It’s freezing out there.”
“Got you a hot chocolate.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I wanted to.”
I wrapped my hands around the base of the mug, feeling the heat engulfing my hands upon contact with the ceramic exterior. Taking a small sip, I moaned as the warm liquid slid down my throat. Was it hazelnut?Maybe nutmeg? Whatever it was, it was fucking amazing.
“Not even joking, this is the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had. Thank you.”
Elliot hummed in agreement as he slid his cup closer, bringing it to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, and he tilted his head back, taking several large gulps of hot chocolate until the only thing that remained was a foamy ring of whipped cream. When he clanked the hollow mug back onto the wooden table, my hands flew to my mouth, stifling the laughter that was trying to escape. The cup wasn’t the only thing with whipped cream on it.
“What?”
“You got a little something.” I gestured to his upper lip.
“Fuck.”
He hastily averted his eyes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was no use fighting the one thought that kept resurfacing in my mind: Elliot looked adorable when he was flustered. Such a macho guy overwhelmed by a teeny tiny cup of hot chocolate.
“Did I get it off?”
“Yeah.”
“Knew I shouldn’t have gotten the Jolly Java hot cocoa with extra whipped cream,” he muttered.
Trying to keep my inner thoughts from translating from my mind to my face, I suppressed a grin and asked, “So what’s the topic for this trivia thing? Literature?”
“And History.”
I smirked and clasped my hands together while stretching out my arms until a satisfying crack emanated through the air.
“This outta be easy, then.”
“You’re a history buff too?”
“I’m aneverythingbuff…except for art.”
Elliot smugly popped his joints, imitating my arrogance as he pulled each finger one by one. “Leave that to me.”
“Whatever you say, Picasso,” I teased. “When does this thing start, anyway?”
“In five—”
A shrill voice overshadowed Elliot’s. “Trivia night starts in five minutes if any other teams want to join!”
“I guess that’s our cue,” I said, hopping up from my seat.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s last call, right? I gotta tell ‘em we’re joining.”
“Already done.”
