Cheesy on the Eyes by Teagan Hunter Page 0,30

me about it. It especially sucks when you’re a young bachelorette just trying to get boned.”

He sputters a laugh, spewing coffee back into his mug as some dribbles down his chin.

Coughing up what likely went down the wrong pipe, he wipes up the mess with the back of his hand, then uses the bottom of his shirt to clean off the table.

“Sorry.” I wince.

He shakes his head, taking another long pull from his drink to clear his airways. “I just wasn’t expecting that. You don’t filter much of what comes out of your mouth, do you?”

“Given my mouth is what got us into this situation, I guess you can assume the answer to that question.”

“Fair enough.” He takes another sip, draining his cup. “Speaking of our situation…”

“Right, our lists. One sec.” I hold up my finger and reach down into my trusty beach bag.

Because I’m an anal-retentive freak, I divided my list into categories and organized it into a binder.

I pluck the small three-ring file from my bag and slide it across the table.

Sully’s deep blue eyes widen when he sees it.

“You made a binder?” he says.

“Okay, wow. I can hear the judgment in your tone, you know?”

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I just can’t believe you made a whole binder of your…your…Thea-isms.”

“You didn’t make a list?”

“No, I did. I just wasn’t aware we had to be this detailed with it.”

“It’s not that detailed.”

He flips open the first page, which contains a quick glimpse of all my favorite things he’ll need to readily know. “It says here your favorite movie is Say Anything but your favorite book is The Shining?” He peeks up at me. “Is this real?”

I toss my hands into the air. “I’m a complicated person, okay?”

As he sits back, that smirk returns. “So I’m starting to learn.”

His eyes trail over me, so slowly and thoroughly I begin to fidget under his scrutiny.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I say when I can’t take it anymore.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re…I don’t know…annoyed or something.”

“Annoyed?”

“Yeah, with me.”

“Oh, Thea. I’m not annoyed. If anything, I’m intrigued. You remind me of the ocean.”

“What? How?”

“You’re…unpredictable.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear, trying to ignore the way my hands are starting to shake as he continues to stare at me. “Is…is that bad?”

“No.” He wets his lips and finally peels his eyes away from me, shifting them back down to the list in front of him. “I happen to love the ocean.”

Slice Eight

Sully

I excel at reading people.

It’s my thing.

But Thea? My inability to read her is what drew me to her in the first place. I couldn’t read her at Slice, and I can’t read her now. The more I get to know her as I flip through the binder resting on my lap, the more she’s starting to feel like a code I have to crack.

And I believe I have my work cut out for me.

She’s a coffee aficionado, but she hates coffee-flavored ice cream. Her favorite flavor happens to be plain old vanilla, which is surprising given her love of sweets. I thought for sure she’d be all over those crazy flavors that combine candy chunks and peanut butter chocolate swirls and the like, but she surprised me yet again.

Perhaps the most mind-blowing fact I’ve learned as I pore over the notebook while she stands out on the stern of my ship is that she loves the beach but hates the ocean.

Funny, because she’s exactly like the ocean: a little rough at times and a whole lot unpredictable. She’s loud yet calming. Lively, but I know there are dark edges to her.

I want to find every one of them.

I watch her as she crosses the deck for probably the fiftieth time, her short legs not holding her back from moving quickly. Her honey brown hair swishes back and forth, the bob curlier today than it was on Sunday.

She’s adorably feisty and—based on our current arrangement—clearly not afraid of a challenge.

Stopping in her tracks, her lips move as she reads whatever item on the list has given her pause.

Then her brows slam together, and I know I’m in for it.

She yanks the glass door open, her eyes ablaze. “You don’t like Christmas?” She throws her hands up, pacing the deck. “What kind of Ebenezer Scrooge am I dating?”

Laughing, I rise out of my chair, following her outside.

The sun is almost gone, and so is the humidity.

After her first outburst over my list, I sent her outside to read the rest while I began