She let out the smallest hum, barely audible over the rumble of the community center’s heater, but unmistakably the sound of someone enjoying herself more than she intended. The sound hit me like a physical force, starting somewhere in my chest and shooting straight down to places that had no business responding to a woman eating breakfast.
Her tongue darted out, quick and reflexive, to catch a tiny bead of syrup that had gathered at the corner of her mouth. The gesture was so unconscious, so instinctive, that it felt like witnessing something private.
I looked away so fast I almost gave myself whiplash, focusing hard on the steam rising from my coffee mug.
Do not stare at her mouth.
Do not stare at her mouth.
DO NOT?—
“These are fine.” Her tone was neutral, as if she hadn’t just made a sound that belonged in a bedroom instead of a community center meeting room.
“Fine.” I held onto my coffee with both hands to keep them occupied and away from any stupid impulses. The ceramic was warm against my palms. “My heart is shattered. Crushed. I may never recover.”
She narrowed those sharp green eyes at me, but I caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth before she wrestled it back under control. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m not cocky.”
“You’re extremely cocky.” She took another bite—bigger this time, like she was proving a point about her self-control.
“I’m not cocky,” I repeated, fighting the urge to grin like an idiot. “I’m delightful. Ask anyone at the station.”
“The jury’s still out.” But her tone had lost some of its sharp edge.
She reached for the syrup bottle and drizzled more on top of her remaining pancakes in slow, looping circles that had no right being as mesmerizing as they were. The golden brown liquid caught the morning light streaming through the windows, and I found myself tracking every lazy spiral she made.
I failed spectacularly at not watching.
Her nails were painted holly-berry red—a deep, rich color that made her hands look elegant despite the practical shortness of her nails. Tiny white snowflakes dotted each thumbnail. She held her fork as if she were trying to maintain dignity even as she obviously wanted to abandon all pretense and inhale the entire plate.
The thought hit me out of nowhere: I wanted to offer the whole stack served on my abs, so she could lick off every crumb and sticky drop with that same unconscious thoroughness.
This was absolute torture, but what a way to go.
“So.” She flipped through her color-coded notebook and pretended she wasn’t having what looked like a near-spiritual experience with carbohydrates. “I think we should divide the Twelve Stops efficiently. I take locations one through six. You handle seven through twelve. We meet again only if absolutely necessary for coordination.”
I blinked at her, processing what she’d said. “That’s… not how this works.”
“It’s efficient,” she insisted, not looking up from her notebook as she started making neat little bullet points.
“It’s avoiding me.”
“It’s efficient resource allocation.”
“It’s avoidance wrapped in efficiency-speak, but okay.” I leaned back in my chair, studying her profile as she refused to meet my eyes.
She stabbed another bite of pancake hard enough that the fork squeaked against the ceramic plate. “Look, Powell. If we split the workload, everything gets accomplished cleaner and faster. No miscommunication. No overlap. No unnecessary complications. No need for us to—“ She waved between us with her syrup-sticky fork. “—collaborate beyond the bare minimum.”
“Jess, this isn’t some school group project where you end up doing all the work because your teammates would tank your GPA.” I kept my voice gentle, but firm.
She froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flicked up to mine, sharp as broken glass and twice as dangerous.
I kept going, sensing I’d hit something. “This event is about community. About bringing people together, not keeping them apart. About collaboration and shared effort. And yes, that includes us working together, whether you like it or not.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I don’t avoid people.”
“You avoid me.”
