Nah. That wouldn’t mean a damn thing.
“No. Nothing is going on. Why would you think that?” Her mouth puckers thoughtfully, and my mind gets dragged back right where it came from.
“Because he looked at me like he wanted to jump over the counter,” I say, forcing myself to meet her eyes.
“He did not.” She shoves a shoulder into my arm with a giggle.
“Oh, he did. I wouldn’t advise it, either.” Her face falls, and she takes a step away from me as her attention jumps to my jaw.
It’s not the first time her attention has gone to the injuries she helped attend. But it is the first time I’ve seen concern. Not for me, but for the man behind the counter.
I don’t like it. Not the worry she feels for the barista, and not the way she looks at me like I’m a loose cannon. It was a cage fight. Yes, I went too far. Couldn’t see beyond the foggy haze clouding my mind, but it’s the norm for The 7th Circle.
Our order is set on the counter before I can comment on her reaction. I take the two drinks and the white paper sack. “Eating here?”
Her head bobs, that fiery hair swishing around her shoulders from under her knitted hat. “This way.”
I follow her over the black-and-white tiles to a table next to the window. The paper sack goes in the middle of the table, and I set a drink on each side. I feel awkward as fuck when I fold myself into the tiny, delicate chair.
“Okay. Now that we’re semi-private, why don’t you just ask me about my face?” It’s time to tell the truth and let her know her identity isn’t secret. She reaches into the bag, retrieves a frittata, and passes it to me. “Thank God,” I mumble. “I was terrified this would be some type of pastry.”
Her slender hand reaches into the bag and pulls out another frittata. “You don’t like pastries?”
“Not a fan of sweets,” I admit, sipping the hot drink. My face draws into a frown. “Spoke too soon.” I set the hot mocha on the table.
“Next time, order for yourself.”
Next time.Why do I like the sound of that?
I pick up the muffin-shaped egg dish and take a bite.Not bad. “Back to what I said. Just ask me what happened. You know you want to.”
“I assure you, I have no interest in knowing what happened to your face.”
“Oh, come on. It’s only human to be curious. And you keep looking. Just ask.”
Her cheeks turn cherry as she drops her attention to her food as if it’s a fascination. “I really don’t want to know.” Her eyes lift just enough to stare at me from beneath her long lashes, darting to the mottled flesh again. “I apologize for staring, but I’m not interested in knowing the details.”
“I can’t help but wonder why?”
“Why what?”
“Why, when I’ve had my tongue down your throat, don’t you want to know?”
“I’ve already told you it’s not my business. I’m also not nosy. A kiss doesn’t nullify that.”
“We both know it was more than just a kiss, or if you hadn’t slammed on the brakes, it would’ve been. Do you know what I think?”
“Tell me, oh, wise one, what do you think?”
“I think you already know what happened.”
She scratches the tip of her nose, her eyes darting behind me. “Obviously, I couldn’t possibly know.”
There it is. The overt lie. I wonder if the little nose scratch is a tell.
I should let it go, but I’m tired, hungover, and a little annoyed. The residual effects of my nightmare and life in general are making me contrary and seditious. Plus, as hypocritical as it makes me, I hate liars. “You’d know if you were there.” Her eye twitches, and a hint of panic passes through her eyes, now more gold and brown than green. The argument is on her tongue, but I don’t allow her to lie anymore. “Especially if you were the one who helped clean up the damage.”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She rubs the tip of her nose again. Definitely her little tell. “Why would you think…I mean, why would I—” She presses her fingers against her temple, a war playing behind her eyes. Then she exhales, defeated. “How did you figure it out?”
