“Mmhm.”
“Is it poor social etiquette to blatantly check out a stranger at the grocery store, too?” He raises his eyebrows, grin still affixed to his mouth.
I huff out a laugh. “Please. I was not checking you out. I was surveying you for weaknesses in case I have to resort to violence.”
His answering bark of laughter makes me lose my grip on my poker face, and I smirk.
Okay, maybe this particular social interaction isn’t the worst.
“Resort to violence?!” He laughs. “I’m like twice your size.”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” I croon. “Don’t underestimate me just because I’m small. It could be your undoing.”
He watches me for a minute, eyes sliding over my face, my body. I can actually feel his gaze on me, and I try to imagine what he sees. Amber eyes, freckles, nose ring, chap-sticked lips, turquoise dipped black hair. The old Green Day shirt and plain black distressed skinny jeans I’m wearing are snug and show off what little curves I have, and I’m rocking my Doc’s. (Thrift store find. Twenty bucks. Fucking treasure.)
For a brief moment, I wish I would have taken the time to change and at least peek in the mirror before I left work. I’m sure I have helmet head from the bike, there’s a damp spot on my jeans from a beer spill, and I smell like a bar. I feel just a teensy bit self-conscious, but then it passes. If he doesn’t like what he sees, screw him. The big, beautiful jerk.
When his eyes land on my lips again, I clear my throat loudly and force a frown.
“So, Butch, you gonna hand over my property or do I have to overpower you and take it myself?”
“Butch?” He jerks his head back, amused and confused.
“Butch Cassidy? Train and bank robberies? A famous burglar. Don’t tell me you’re a thief and uncultured.”
He chuckles and gives me a shrug.
“Just a pretty face, then,” I shake my head and sigh. “Such a shame.”
“You think I’m pretty.”
“I have eyes.” I fold my arms over my chest and look away, feigning boredom. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a criminal.”
“I’ll tell you what.” He mimics my stance and hits me with an all-business stare. “I’ll trade you for the vanilla.”
I purse my lips before asking, “What do I have to give?”
“I’ll trade you this vanilla for your number.”
Oh. Well, okay then. This is a no-brainer.
“I told you before that I don’t associate with criminals.”
“But if I give you the bottle, then I wouldn’t be a criminal. I’m not stealing; it’s all just one big misunderstanding.”
“And what if this isn’t your first offense? How do I know you’re not trying to trick me? Get my number, then make off with the goods?” I squint my eyes at him. “You could be trying to set me up for a bunch of cold calling campaigns. Or planning to put my number on a billboard or a bathroom stall. How do I know you can be trusted?”
Pretty sure I’ve got this boy eating out of the palm of my hand. He’s trying so hard not to let his smile take over his face, trying and failing, and his brown eyes are dancing with humor. He’s amused. He’s having fun, and I’m suddenly not tired anymore.
“You bring up good points.” He pauses. “I don’t suppose you’ll take my word for it.”
I laugh and roll my eyes.
“Of course not,” he chuckles. “I’ll let you buy it first? You can buy it and put it in your car, and then give me your number.”
I pretend to think it over.
“If we do it that way, you’ll stay on the sidewalk until I’ve secured the product, and then I’ll shout my number to you.”