Page 26 of South of The Skyway

“You don’t drink coffee,” I stated flatly, trying my best not to smirk at his obvious repulsion. “Do you?”

He grimaced outright. “That obvious?”

“Your face is loud.” It was. His joy, humor, and revulsion all painted across those chiseled features, not concealed by the thin coat of blonde stubble.

“Always been an open book.” He shrugged. “Not a problem except for situations like this.”

“Where you lie whilst wooing a woman?”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Apparently pretty pitifully if it’s this obvious.” He attempted another sample of black coffee, barely concealing his nose wrinkle. I laughed, tossing my hair over a shoulder and waving at Wren, miming holding one of our little trays of condiments. She grinned, turning for the cabinet.

“What do you usually drink?”

“Tea, mostly.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I like my coffee in the ‘counts as dessert’, combined with the ‘drink your calories’ variety.”

“Ahh, a frilly beverage man.”

“Guilty as charged,” he said, raising his hands in self-defense as Wren arrived with a petite gold tray engraved with flowers and vines. She settled it on the table with a gentle clink.

“Can I snag anything else for you two?”

“That will do, thanks, Wren.”

I motioned to the assortment of goodies. “Oat creamer on the right, local dairy on the left. Raw sugar, stevia, and Splenda if you’re more of theAtkinsvariety.”

“How’s that for a throwback Thursday?”

“Seems like everyone was on that thing.”

“Same back home.” He opted for the oat milk creamer and a packet of Raw sugar, mixing both in and taking a tentative sip before smiling. You could tell a lot about a person by how they took their coffee. I suppose, whilst Rhyett probably opted out more often than not, his choices screamedhealth freak.Not that I’d needed much confirmation beyond the definition in those biceps. The most unfair thing about our little rendezvous was that I still had no clue what his tattoo was, just the edges peeking out of his t-shirt.

“Much better.”

“A for effort, hotshot.”

“So. You’re smut sluts. Why coffee?”

“Coffee, pastries, breakfast potatoes. We eat like aHobbitclan here.”

“Anywhere I’m allowed to consume two breakfasts is good by me.”

“Three, some days.”

“I like a girl that knows how to eat.”

It was entirely illogical, but my stomach did a loop-de-loop, heat flushing my face. I shouldn’t care. Itshouldn’tmatter. And it shouldn’t be embarrassing that he now thought I binged like a deprived animal whenever my emotions got the better of me.

“Hypothetically speaking, who would a man talk to about getting some of those breakfast potatoes?”

“Hypothetically speaking?” I parroted back, smirking despite myself. “Wren is the keeper of the POS.”

“Excellent, excellent. I’ll have to hit her up after.” He motioned vaguely to the coffee. Not a coffee drinker: if I was considering an honest-to-god dating scenario—which I was absolutely not—that might be a deal breaker, even though the distressed twist to his features threatened to crack the case I’d shoved my sense of humor into.

“You do not have to finish that,” I teased. Well, partially teased. Partially stated out of moral obligation as I remembered the distaste carved into his face.

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