“If the shoe fits.”
I glance at him, and of course, he’s already looking at me, smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to my pulse. And maybe he does.
God, he’s annoyingly attractive. And worse, he knows it.
“I just think it’s funny,” he says after a second. “You claim I’m not your type, but you can’t stop looking at me.”
“I’m looking because you keep talking,” I shoot back. “If you’d shut up, maybe I wouldn’t have to.”
He grins, a low chuckle leaving his lips. “Are you flirting with me, Wilson?”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop the heat creeping up my neck. “I think you’re confusing bullying with flirting,” I mutter.
“Nah,” he says, still watching me. “I just think you’re a lot more into me than you let on.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“And you’re a little liar,” he teases.
Luckily, the waitress comes back before he can say anything else, placing the copious plates of food down on the table.
God, it smells like heaven.
Austin digs into his burger, groaning when he takes a bite. “Holy fuck, that’s good.”
Without saying a word, he pushes the plate of mozzarella sticks toward me.
My eyes flick up, confused.
“You like these, right?” he asks, arching his brow a second later. “If you don’t then there’s something seriously wrong with you.”
I let out a laugh and nod slowly.
“Then have one.” He shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. “I won’t quit until you do.”
I blink. My hands are still in my lap, curled into fists under the table.
I reach out, trying not to overthink it as I grab one and take a bite.
The mozzarella stretches on the first bite, and he looks up again, his lips stretching out into a smile. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like everyone’s watching. Just him. And somehow, I don’t mind it.
“So,” Austin says, wiping his mouth with a napkin, keeping his eyes locked on me, “tell me about the guy.”
I almost choke on my mozzarella stick and have to swallow hard. “What guy?”
He raises one eyebrow, grinning like he’s got the answer before I even say anything. “The one you like.”
My chest tightens, and I fight the flush creeping up my neck. “There’s no guy.”
“Aw, Freckles.” He leans forward, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “You really think you can lie to me? I see right through your flushed cheeks.”
I swallow again, hoping he’ll drop it. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
He takes a slow sip of his milkshake. “Come on. Spill.”
But I can’t. Because the guy I like is anonymous. Just a faceless guy I’ve been texting and have no idea who he is.
I don’t know his hair color or his eye color or what his laugh sounds like. I don’t know if he’s tall or short or if he wears glasses or has a crooked smile. I don’t know what music he listens to, or if he’d look at me the way I’ve always wanted someone to.
