The Rule Breaker - Crystal Kaswell Page 0,31

that turns the afternoon temperate.

Ollie shakes his head it's too fucking bright, slips on his sunglasses, slings his backpack over his shoulder. "I should make you carry this."

"It doesn't go with my outfit."

He chuckles of course. "You know what matters."

"A girl's got to have priorities." I follow him down the sidewalk. "What do you think for coffee? Blue Bottle, Groundworks, Intelligentsia?"

He makes that hmm noise. "Good day for iced. But Blue Bottle is the other direction."

"I don't mind."

"Tomorrow," he says. "You can buy some. Bring it to the shop. Do my bidding for once."

"That doesn't sound fun."

"Huh, imagine that?" He smiles.

"You're not the only one who doesn't follow orders."

He raises a brow.

I fight a blush. "You only do things if you want to do them."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah."

He shrugs whatever you want to believe. Motions in the direction of his favorite coffee shop.

For a few minutes, we walk in silence. Nothing but the breeze, the hum of traffic, the occasional rumble of someone else's conversation.

Even as we turn onto the main drag, as we move into the coffee shop, wait in line.

This place is hipster extreme. All white walls and glass contraptions. Sparse wooden seats. Rude baristas.

"What if I get a French press?" I tap his shoulder with mine.

"We'll be here for twenty minutes."

"Are you saying no?"

"It will be an extra twenty minutes before you get your fake ink."

"You can have some," I say.

"I've shared coffee with you. I know what that means."

"Fifty-fifty. I swear." I place my hand over my heart. "On the honor of the Bachelorette franchise."

"What honor?"

"On my obsession with keeping my hair the perfect shade of silver."

He nods okay. Holds out his hand.

I shake.

"Why do you do that?" he asks. "This." He brushes my bangs out of my eyes. "The silver."

"I thought we talked about this—"

"Your quest to suck as many dicks as possible?"

The guy in front of us turns and shoots us a what the fuck is wrong with you stare.

"Sorry," I mouth.

Oliver leans in to whisper. "I think he's volunteering."

"Oh my god." I hip bump him.

He bumps back.

The guy shakes his head really, how rude. He takes a big step forward. Taps his toe impatiently.

"Look at what the rejection did to him," Oliver whispers.

This time, I push him. Softly enough it's playful.

But he still wraps his hands around my wrists. Stops me.

His hands are just there. Wrapped around my wrists. Ready to guide me.

And he's standing there, all tall and strong and proud, looking down at me with eager eyes.

Eyes that scream yes, now, let's be naked.

I freeze.

Lose myself in his deep blue eyes.

In how badly I want to touch him.

In how badly he wants to touch me.

I'm there. Waiting. At the precipice.

Until the barista calls next and Oliver steps back.

Right. Our coffee.

This is a favor. I'm buying him coffee.

I order the large French Press. The single-origin beans from Brazil.

It's going to take a few minutes. They'll call us when it's done.

Right.

I pay.

Oliver finds seats in the back of the crowded cafe. They're bench seats. Next to each other.

Sure. That's no problem. I can sit next to him without touching him.

Totally.

I'll just wait at the counter. Until the coffee is ready. For no reason.

I motion to the counter. Pretend as if I'm fascinated with my cell. Wow, Buzzfeed, can you really guess my favorite ice cream flavor?

Strawberry.

Not even close.

Coffee ice cream is the only flavor that isn't too sweet.

The French press arrives just as I start a second quiz—pick an outfit and we'll give you a celebrity to date.

I thank the barista, grab the press and mugs, bring them to the table, sit.

It's a tiny space. So small my leg is pressed against his. We're both wearing jeans, but I can still feel the warmth of his skin.

I'm still itching to touch him.

I fill both cups instead. "Cream and sugar?"

"A crime punishable by death?"

"This time, I'll allow it."

"Generous."

I nod I know.

He half-smiles. Holds up his tiny mug to toast. "To wanting the best."

"To wanting the best." I tap my ceramic against his.

He watches as I bring the mug to my lips. As I sip, taste, swallow, sigh.

My eyes flutter closed. I soak in the rich, deep, dark perfection of the coffee.

But still, I feel his stare.

God, I like his stare. I want more of his stare.

"It's sexy," he says. "Your hair. I wasn't just saying that for Sean's benefit."

"Thanks." Light floods my eyes. Then it's his strong jaw, his long nose, his gorgeous eyes.

"You really cut it shorter because guys thought your platinum look