Page 79 of Storm in a Teacup
My eyes close as I take a sip of coffee, knowing the coffee from Ben’s café will always be better than whatever I can brew myself. I set the mug on the table with a sigh.
A knock on my door makes my eyes shoot open and my arm swing out, sending coffee splashing from my mug.
I quietly approach the door so I can peek out through the peephole, which is slightly more difficult while wearing my frames. Ben is on the other side, wearing something bright and yellow. My shoulders un-tense as I unlock my door and pull it open, letting it drag across the doormat.
I scan him up and down. “What the hell are you wearing?”
It’s not just bright and yellow. It’s tight. My gaze trails downto a specific bulging area between his legs that I think about more often than I should—which is to say, at all.
He chuckles. “You like it, don’t you?”
My focus shoots back up, my cheeks flaming. “You didn’t answer my question. Also, second question, what the hell are you doing here?”
“You said the other day that there is no way anyone could look good in cycling clothes. I’m proving you wrong.” He’s wearing a long-sleeve yellow and black zip-up jacket that is windbreaker material and fitted black shorts with a neon yellow stripe down the side, reaching just above his knee.
I look him over again. “That color is horrendous.”
“Yeah, but check out my arse.” He spins around to give me a nice shot.
“Very…sculpted,” I observe, eyes lingering. I shake myself out of it. “It issoearly, Ben.” I scan him again. “You said you don’t wear that when you go mountain biking.”
“Naw, I don’t. Still fitted outfits, but lacking the spandex. I bought this when I thought I was gonna try out road cycling. Not as fun, and you’re always in the way of cars.”
“I guess that’s why it’s so goddamn bright.” I sit back down at my table, gesturing him inside. He closes the door behind himself, but does not join me at the table. “Have you been mountain biking recently?”
“Too wet.”
“Didn’t think you’d mind the wet.”
His eyes glimmer. “You want to see me wet again, sugar?”
“I feel like that’s my line.” I clear my throat, cheeks still warm. “It’ssoearly,” I say again. I have no defense against his joke flirting, and no defense against my honest enjoyment of it.
“Can I say hello to my nephew?”
“Your nephew?”
Ben’s eyes light up as he spots Oscar behind me. “Hi, handsome boy!” He steps past my chair, scooping my cat up into his arms like a baby. Oscar Wilde nuzzles in. “Yes, you love your uncle Ben, don’t you, you genius writer you.”
“Don’t call yourself ‘Uncle Ben.’ It makes it sound like you’re going to try to stop a robbery and end up on the wrong side of a weapon.”
“Are you Spider-Man in this scenario?”
“Obviously Oscar Wilde is Spider-Man in this scenario.”
“He’d be a great superhero. What else am I supposed to call myself? My name is Ben. Uncle Bennett is too formal.”
“You don’t have to be his uncle anything.”
“I can’t just be ‘Ben.’”
“He’s a cat. He doesn’t need to call you anything.”
“Well, he has a mother. Does he need a daddy?”
“If you start calling yourself ‘daddy,’ you will get kicked out of my apartment.”
He grins wickedly. “I knew you wouldn’t like that. Uncle Ben it is.” Oscar is rolling around in Ben’s arms, rubbing his little head against Ben’s jaw, then switching sides to rub against the other cheek.
