Page 67 of Cross Check Christmas
I blink hard. By the time I look again, he's gone, leaving only the lingering jingle of the bell over the door.
I'm still staring out into the street when Tucker says, "So you and the Ice Queen, huh?"
"Don't call her that." My hands clench on the counter. "The Ice Queen thing. It's not cool."
Tucker blinks. "Everyone calls her?—"
"Yeah, well, everyone can shove it." The memory of Colette opening up about her past hits me hard.
Tucker backs away from the counter, hands raised. "Whoa, easy there. Just a nickname."
"A stupid one that needs to die." I lean forward. "In fact, if I hear anyone call her that again, I'll personally introduce them to the iciest part of Lake Huron.”
"Message received. No more Ice Queen comments. I'll spread the word." Tucker grabs a mug and starts making what looks like his signature pecan praline latte.
"Good."
"You know," he says, tamping the espresso grinds, "you still have two days until Christmas Eve. Plenty of time to win the bet."
I stare at him. "Did you miss the part where I'm forfeiting?"
"Just hear me out. Take her on a real date. I hung mistletoe all over town… you're bound to catch her under some of it."
Something's off about his eager tone. Tucker's usually competitive as hell. We once didn't speak for a week over a game of Mario Kart. Yet here he is, practically begging me to win.
"Why do you want me to win so badly?" I narrow my eyes at him. "What's going on?"
"Nothing!" He begins to froth the milk, shouting over the high-pitched hiss of the steamer. "Just think you two are good together, that's all."
"Uh-huh."
I watch Tucker's hands as he crafts the latte, his movements precise but jittery. Something's definitely up with him. I've seen him make thousands of these drinks with the steady confidence of a surgeon, but right now he's acting like he's had way too many shots of his own espresso. His fingers twitch slightly as he pours the steamed milk, nearly messing up the fancy leaf design he usually nails in his sleep.
He slides the steaming mug across the counter, followed by my Boba Fett. "On the house. And keep your toy."
"Seriously?" I pick up the figurine. "You've been trying to get your hands on this since college."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. "Maybe I'm not as into collecting anymore."
"Tucker."
"What?"
"You literally showed me your eBay watchlist last week. It was all Star Wars memorabilia."
He busies himself with wiping down the steam wand. "People change."
"In a week?"
"Look, just take the figure and the coffee and go win over your English teacher, okay?"
I set the Boba Fett down with a thunk. "Spill it. What's going on?"
"Nothing! Can't a guy just want his friend to be happy?"
"A normal guy, sure. You? No way." I lean over the counter. "Did you make your own bet? Is that what this is about?"
Tucker's face flushes red. "What? No! Of course not! That would be... completely accurate, actually."
