Cheesy on the Eyes by Teagan Hunter Page 0,29
from the pull-out drawer on the stand and pops it into the machine. He pulls two coffee mugs from a clear tote that houses all his dishes and sets it below the spout, pushing the brew button. He heads toward the fridge, hand on the door handle as he says, “And carpeted, for some godforsaken reason. The first thing I did was rip up the old carpet and replace it with hardwood.”
“That sounds…”
“Unbearably tacky? I know. Milk?”
“Do you happen to have anything non-dairy?”
“Almond milk okay?”
“Perfect. I’m not lactose intolerant or anything, I just drink a lot of coffee and I prefer the non-dairy stuff so it doesn’t sit so heavily in my stomach with this southern heat.”
“That’s exactly why I prefer it,” he says, pulling a carton of almond milk from the fridge and setting it on the table.
He walks toward me, grabbing the box of cookies from my grasp and taking them to the table. He motions toward the empty chair.
Sliding my bag off my shoulder, I take a seat.
He folds himself into the opposite chair. “I’ll add your coffee order to my list of things to know about you.”
“If you want to know my full coffee order, my secret ingredient is—”
“Vanilla!”
I rear back. “How’d you know that?”
“I was trying to figure out what you smell like. I got the apple part, but I couldn’t put my finger on what else it was. It’s vanilla.”
Sully was smelling me?
To my surprise, he doesn’t look embarrassed by this admission. Those flutters in my stomach return.
He bends, reaching into the bin again and producing a small bottle of vanilla extract. He pushes it across the table toward me just as the coffee finishes brewing.
“You have vanilla?”
“What? Don’t look so shocked. I’m no Betty Crocker, but I am a big French toast fan. It’s easy to make in the toaster oven.” He slides open the drawer the machine is sitting on. “Pick your poison.”
I mull over the various options, settling on a medium French vanilla–flavored brew. I’m a coffee hound, so I know I need something with a little less caffeine than a light roast this late at night.
“If you prefer dark, why do you have so many flavors and roasts?” I ask, sliding the drawer back in its spot and plunking the pod down into the raised lid. I press it closed and slide my mug under the spout.
“My friends come over a lot. Since the place isn’t exactly homey yet, I like to offer some level of comfort.”
I like that. It’s a small gesture but goes a long way. It’s sweet that he takes care of his friends so well, and it makes me feel a little less nervous about the random guy I picked up to be my pretend boyfriend.
“The ones who gifted you that flag, I assume?”
“Those same assholes.” Only there’s no bite in his tone.
“They seem like fun people.”
“They’re something. You grew up here, right?” he asks.
“Born and raised.”
“You may know them, especially if you frequent Slice. I’m good friends with the Daniels twins, Foster, and—”
“That billionaire dude from California, right? I’ve heard a lot of murmurings about him.”
“Yeah, that’s Porter.”
“Damn.” I whistle. “You hang with an influential crowd.”
“Says the girl related to the NFL quarterback.”
I grab my now finished coffee, pouring just a tablespoon or two of almond milk into the mug and adding a dash of vanilla. I swirl the liquid, bringing the steaming beverage to my lips and taking a sip.
When I set the mug back down, I say, “That’s probably why you look so familiar—I’m sure I’ve seen you with them before. I’m surprised we haven’t been properly introduced before now.”
He lifts a strong shoulder. “I don’t really go out of my way to talk to people.”
“Shy?”
He grunts. “Hardly. I just keep my mouth shut until I have something to say.”
“So you’re the studier.” I squint, assessing him. “Let me guess—Foster’s the happy-go-lucky, boy-next-door one, Winston’s the one with a chip on his shoulder, Porter’s the new guy, and you’re the quiet, soulful one.”
Something sparks in his eyes when I call him on what he is, but I can’t place what it is.
Surprise? Derision? Humor?
He lifts his cup to his mouth, but not before I see the smirk that’s formed on his lips. “I guess you could say that, yeah.”
“Have you been friends long?” I ask.
“A few years.”
“You’ve lived here for a few years and we haven’t met yet? How is that even possible in this town?”
“It is pretty small, huh?”
“Ugh,” I groan. “Tell