Page 25 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
I lick the whipped cream from my upper lip, and I swear fire flares in his green eyes. My stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster, my pulse kicking hard against my ribs. I want to say something, anything, but I don’t have time before the waitress reappears.
She slides a burger in front of me, another in front of Max, and two baskets of fries between us. The spell snaps, replaced with the clatter of plates and the faint hiss of the coffee machine behind the counter.
“Enjoy, boys,” she chirps before heading back toward the kitchen.
I pick up a fry and take a bite, forcing my grin back into place as if nothing just happened. “Guess I’m officially on the Calder-approved meal plan,” I say lightly, even though my brain is still stuck on the way his eyes burned a second ago.
He picks up his burger, tilts his head, and grins. “Could’ve been worse. I might’ve banned you from dessert altogether. Including those sugary drinks.” His gaze dips slowly to my hot cocoa before tracing over my lips and then meeting my steady stare head-on.
I roll my eyes, but my heart’s still racing. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
He chuckles, low and easy, and for a second I forget how to breathe. I take a huge bite of my burger just to ground myself, chewing as if it can drown out the tension buzzing between us.
“Careful,” he says, eyes glinting. “Don’t choke. Wouldn’t look good on my résumé if my starting goalie drops dead in a diner.”
I snort. “You’d have to explain it in interviews, huh?How’d your player die? Oh, burger-related incident.”
His smirk sharpens. “Wouldn’t even get the sentence out before you’re haunting me.”
“You think I’d haunt you?”
“Without a doubt.” He leans back, arms folding across his chest, pleased with himself. “You’d be the most obnoxious ghost alive—popping up to remind me I didn’t let you order and eat pie for dinner.”
I grin, shaking my head, but his words make something warm curl low in my stomach. We slide into easier conversation after that—about my family, holiday traditions, little scraps about our hometowns we haven’t traded before. It feels dangerously natural, as though we’re not just two guys killing time over burgers but…something else.
I talk about how my mom always buys those ridiculous Christmas pajamas for the whole family, making us all pose for pictures, and he actually smiles at the image. When I nudge him for one of his own, he shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, but there’s a flicker in his eyes before he answers.
“Nothing big. We used to do these cookie-decorating contests every year,” he says, voice casual. “Total chaos—sprinkles everywhere. My sister would cheat by eating half the frosting.”
“Used to?” I ask, curious, but he’s already busying himself with his fries.
His jaw tightens just a fraction. “Yeah.” He says it like a period; that’s all I get. Then he tosses me a quick glance and forces a half-smile. “What about you—any weird Starling family rituals I should know about, besides matching PJ’s?”
I catch the shift, the way his voice shutters down, and for a second, I want to push. But I don’t. Because he gave me a piece of himself just now, even if it was small. So, instead, I tuck it away quietly, a secret I’m meant to hold.
I take a big bite of my burger, trying to chase away the sudden weight in my chest, and probably make a mess of it because Max’s eyes flick toward me in this sharp, assessing way. Running over my face in a way that makes me want to squirm in my seat.
“You, uh…” He gestures vaguely toward his own face. “You’ve got something.”
Before I can even grab a napkin, he reaches across the table and swipes his thumb along my cheekbone. The touch is quick, thoughtless—reflexive—but it lands like a live wire, jolting through me.
I freeze, mid-chew, staring at him as though he just flipped the whole damn world upside down. His thumb’s already gone, but the ghost of it lingers on my skin, burning hot. Fuck. If I make more of a mess, will he lick it off? Whoa, don’t go there, Starling. Still, my heart kicks up, and I’m tempted to try.
“Got it,” he says casually, pretending he didn’t just knock the air straight out of my lungs.
“Uh. Thanks,” I manage, my voice coming out rough. Not a date. Definitely not a date. Then why the hell does it feel like one?
My skin still tingles where his thumb brushed me; my nerve endings don’t know how to shut up about it. It wasn’t even a big deal—just a smudge of food, gone in a second—but my body doesn’t seem to care about logic. My pulse hammers, my palms go clammy, and I can’t stop replaying it on a loop. The way he didn’t hesitate, how he looked right at me, steady, as if wiping something off my cheek was the most natural thing in the world.
I shove another fry in my mouth, hoping salt and grease can drown out the thought that maybe, maybe he doesn’t see this as just killing time either.
Except then he’s back to eating, calm as ever, and I’m left wondering if I imagined the heat in his eyes earlier, if the roller-coaster drop in my stomach was all me.
Get it together, Starling. You’re reading too much into it.
I keep the banter going where I can, letting him carry us into safer topics, laughing a little too loudly when he says something dry. It feels like the only way to keep from giving myself away.
When the waitress circles back, I don’t even think. “French silk pie and a black coffee,” I say, flashing her my best grin. “To go.”
