Page 47 of Branded
But this made me feel…warm and buoyant and?—
Right. Time to stop staring at Hazel like an idiot.
“Wow,” I managed. “I—thanks.” I gestured at the chair in front of me. “Should I go to the vending machine and get us some drinks?”
Hazel grinned. “Oh no,” she said as she sank into the seat, and there was a twinkle in her brown eyes.
What?
Okaaay…
Well, I didn’t really need drinks anyway. I had a bottle of water.
Hazel leaned forward. “When we want drinks, we hit the boys’ kitchen.” A wink.
“So, I’ll go to the kitchen then?” I asked.
A shake of Hazel’s head. “In the future, yes.” The affirmative paired with the head shake threw her. “Today,” she went on, “you won’t need to?—”
Movement behind Hazel.
A big body, his freshly showered scent reaching my nose. Smitty held a bag, and this time I didn’t think it contained a cookbook that would bring a blush to my cheeks. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he said softly and for some reason, this made Hazel’s grin widen. “I just wanted to bring you this.”
And…
He set two cans on the desk.
Along with two Smitty-palm-sized cookies beside them—which meant they were giant.
As I knew.
Since they’d been on my ass, in my hair, coasting along my side, cupping my jaw. The memories made me shiver, heat flowing through me.
Then I looked at one of the cans.
What drink it was.
A special type of sweet peach tea that I knew for a fact wasn’t carried in the vending machines, and considering that the kitchen was home to healthy snacks and drinks courtesy of the nutrition staff, I highly doubted sugar-loaded sweet tea would be one of the offered options.
But there it was.
Sitting on my desk with beads of condensation starting to roll down the aluminum cylinder.
Along with two cookies.
My lips parted and I felt my eyes go wide, drifting from the can to Smitty and over to Hazel, who was wearing a shit-eating expression.
“Right,” Smitty said, rocking back on his heels, looking so different from that morning, so unsure and out of place. “I’ll leave you to your lunch, little bird,” he murmured.
Uncertainty in the big man’s frame, on his face.
I hated that.
So, I reached for his wrist, wound my fingers around it and squeezed. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“I—” A hand through his beard then thrust through his hair, mussing the damp locks. “It’s nothing,” he said quietly.
Another squeeze, hoping that my eyes showed exactly how much it meant to me.
