She was wearing another pair of those loose-fitting, knit trousers that, regardless if they fit loose, they still clung to certain parts of her (the alluring parts), drawing attention.
This pair was black and she wore it with a matching zip up hoodie with gathers at the pockets. He could see a dusty blue camisole peeking over the zip at her cle**age.
Her hair was in a wild mess on top of her head, spikes poking from it and long tendrils falling down her neck.
Her face was makeup free.
It was also pale.
She looked sicker than a dog but still somehow beautiful.
He took this all in in an instant and then let out a bark of laughter.
She flinched at the noise and at her flinch he bit back his laughter but kept chuckling.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked.
She walked into the kitchen, got close to him (but not too close) and leaned heavily against the counter.
“I’m never drinking again.”
He grinned at her. “Everyone says that.”
Her eyes locked on his. “No. Seriously. I. Am. Never. Drinking. Again.”
The way she enunciated every word with complete and hilariously adorable seriousness gave him the sudden and intense urge to kiss her.
He also needed, very badly, to laugh.
He did the latter.
She glared at him which made his laughter deepen.
Then she scowled, her eyes moved to the filled coffee filter in his hand, her scowl disappeared and her eyes grew wide.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He looked down at the coffee filter in his hand, thinking it was readily apparent what he was doing.
Then he looked at her and stated the obvious, “Making coffee.”
“How much coffee?” she asked, eyes still on the filter.
“A pot.”
Her gaze slid to his face. “Prentice, that’s enough coffee to make an urn of coffee and when I say urn I mean those industrial-sized urns they have in cafeterias which serve a hundred. How strong do you like your coffee?” The last came out high-pitched and incredulous.
So that was what he was doing wrong.
She didn’t wait for him to answer, she moved into his space, shuffling him out of the way at the same time deftly confiscating the over-filled coffee filter.
“I’ll make the coffee,” she muttered, dumping half the grounds back into the canister. She then reached into the spice drawer, pulled out cinnamon and sprinkled it on the top. She put the filter in the machine, slapped it to and flipped the switch.
Cinnamon.
That was why her coffee was so heavenly.
That and the fact that there wasn’t far too much coffee in the filter.