widely.
“Holy shit,” he mutters and shakes his head.
“I baked it and decorated it,” I say.
The muffin is pretty, if I say so myself. The frosting is blue, and there’s a red cherry on top.
“Blue for Mr. Blue,” I whisper.
“What?” He pales, and I wonder why. “What did you just call me?”
“Blue.” I tilt my head to the side, trying to solve his new puzzle. “Blue hair, blue eyes. Blue. Duh.”
He’s utterly still for a long moment, two red spots on his cheek bones, bright in his white face.
“What’s the matter?” I’m worried I put my foot in my mouth somehow. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” But he won’t look at me. “Why?”
The roughness in his voice makes my chest go tight. “Why what?”
“This.” He still won’t look at me as he lifts the muffin. “Why?”
“Do I need a reason?” I shrug, because, hey.
He finally looks up, and I can’t read his face, although his smile lingers, faint. “You made me a muffin for no reason?”
Put that way… “I didn’t say that. You seem stressed out these days. So I made it for you.”
He swallows. The shop has faded around us, the sounds, the smells, the voices. It’s just him, blue against blue against blue, the muffin frosting, his hair, his eyes. His smile.
“What can I give you back?” he whispers, and it’s almost as if he’s talking to himself.
“Nothing,” I reply anyway. Then again… There is something I want. “But you could let me see.”
“See what?”
“Your palm.”
Confusion tightens his brow, but when I reach for his hand, he lets me take it. Large, strong, the backside dotted with light freckles. When I turn it over, there’s a line of black ink on his thumb.
So warm. His palm is rough when I run my fingers over it, its lines deep.
“Why are you really here?” he breathes.
“I had this feeling,” I tell him truthfully. “That you needed my help.” I glance up and realize with a start how close together we’re standing. If I stood on tiptoes, I could kiss that soft-looking mouth, know if he tastes as spicy as he smells. “Do you?”
Something flashes over his features. Something dark and painful, vanishing in an instant.
“That depends.” His grin is back, brightening his clear eyes, lifting the corners of his beautiful mouth. He lifts the hand I’m holding to touch my face. “Can you cook soup?”
***
I have a date with Ocean Storm. Tonight.
To cook soup.
Okay, maybe it’s not a date. Doesn’t much sound like one, but a girl can dream, right? Or rather fantasize and delude herself.
It’s enough that he asked me for help. Let me look at his palm. Let me in . Even if just a little.
Yet the warm feeling in my chest won’t quit as Amber and I make our way to the coffee shop where we’re meeting with the girls. I park, climb out of the car and haul Amber inside. I want to see the girls and go home. There’s an itch under my skin to be left alone, think, prepare.
For what exactly? To cook soup? I sigh to myself as we enter the coffee shop and make a beeline for the table occupied by our friends.
Maybe to dress up? To fix my hair? To think about the deep lines in his palm?
What am I doing?
I’m in a bit of a trance as we sit down and Cassie goes to get our coffee for us. I smile absently at Ev and Manon. The Damage girls.
I’m just friends with Ocean. So why am I freaking out?
“So when are you and Jesse moving in together?” Ev wants to know, and Amber blushes. She does that a lot lately, more than usual. Interesting. “Any date set? Apartment found?”
“We looked at a tiny studio we like,” she says. “Could be the one.”
“As long as it fits a double bed…” Ev winks, then turns to me. “Hey, girl, did you read the cards for me?”
“No. I…” Was distracted. Trying to read my own fate. Spreading them again and again.
Obsessed, Amber said. Maybe I am. I kept seeing paths and the urge to act, to take a chance, a risk.
And ended up with the
“Holy shit,” he mutters and shakes his head.
“I baked it and decorated it,” I say.
The muffin is pretty, if I say so myself. The frosting is blue, and there’s a red cherry on top.
“Blue for Mr. Blue,” I whisper.
“What?” He pales, and I wonder why. “What did you just call me?”
“Blue.” I tilt my head to the side, trying to solve his new puzzle. “Blue hair, blue eyes. Blue. Duh.”
He’s utterly still for a long moment, two red spots on his cheek bones, bright in his white face.
“What’s the matter?” I’m worried I put my foot in my mouth somehow. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” But he won’t look at me. “Why?”
The roughness in his voice makes my chest go tight. “Why what?”
“This.” He still won’t look at me as he lifts the muffin. “Why?”
“Do I need a reason?” I shrug, because, hey.
He finally looks up, and I can’t read his face, although his smile lingers, faint. “You made me a muffin for no reason?”
Put that way… “I didn’t say that. You seem stressed out these days. So I made it for you.”
He swallows. The shop has faded around us, the sounds, the smells, the voices. It’s just him, blue against blue against blue, the muffin frosting, his hair, his eyes. His smile.
“What can I give you back?” he whispers, and it’s almost as if he’s talking to himself.
“Nothing,” I reply anyway. Then again… There is something I want. “But you could let me see.”
“See what?”
“Your palm.”
Confusion tightens his brow, but when I reach for his hand, he lets me take it. Large, strong, the backside dotted with light freckles. When I turn it over, there’s a line of black ink on his thumb.
So warm. His palm is rough when I run my fingers over it, its lines deep.
“Why are you really here?” he breathes.
“I had this feeling,” I tell him truthfully. “That you needed my help.” I glance up and realize with a start how close together we’re standing. If I stood on tiptoes, I could kiss that soft-looking mouth, know if he tastes as spicy as he smells. “Do you?”
Something flashes over his features. Something dark and painful, vanishing in an instant.
“That depends.” His grin is back, brightening his clear eyes, lifting the corners of his beautiful mouth. He lifts the hand I’m holding to touch my face. “Can you cook soup?”
***
I have a date with Ocean Storm. Tonight.
To cook soup.
Okay, maybe it’s not a date. Doesn’t much sound like one, but a girl can dream, right? Or rather fantasize and delude herself.
It’s enough that he asked me for help. Let me look at his palm. Let me in . Even if just a little.
Yet the warm feeling in my chest won’t quit as Amber and I make our way to the coffee shop where we’re meeting with the girls. I park, climb out of the car and haul Amber inside. I want to see the girls and go home. There’s an itch under my skin to be left alone, think, prepare.
For what exactly? To cook soup? I sigh to myself as we enter the coffee shop and make a beeline for the table occupied by our friends.
Maybe to dress up? To fix my hair? To think about the deep lines in his palm?
What am I doing?
I’m in a bit of a trance as we sit down and Cassie goes to get our coffee for us. I smile absently at Ev and Manon. The Damage girls.
I’m just friends with Ocean. So why am I freaking out?
“So when are you and Jesse moving in together?” Ev wants to know, and Amber blushes. She does that a lot lately, more than usual. Interesting. “Any date set? Apartment found?”
“We looked at a tiny studio we like,” she says. “Could be the one.”
“As long as it fits a double bed…” Ev winks, then turns to me. “Hey, girl, did you read the cards for me?”
“No. I…” Was distracted. Trying to read my own fate. Spreading them again and again.
Obsessed, Amber said. Maybe I am. I kept seeing paths and the urge to act, to take a chance, a risk.
And ended up with the
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