Only Trick
“Doesn’t mean you weren’t sending it.” I spoon the eggs onto the plates.
Trick sets two pieces of toast on each plate and slides them to the opposite edge by the barstools. Then he gets out butter, jelly, orange juice, and a jar from the spice cabinet.
“So do you still want me to fuck off?” I ask, climbing onto the barstool.
He hands me a fork and knife. “I do if you don’t stop mutilating my groceries.” There’s zero humor to his voice, but I’m learning that’s just Trick. His emotions are subtle and hard to read, like blurred ink.
I spread butter and strawberry jelly on my toast. “The funny thing is … I’m not usually a vengeful person. At least I never thought so until I met you.” I shrug and pile the eggs onto my toast. “I guess you bring out the evil in me. Congratulations, I’ve been considered a doormat for years, so this is progress for me.”
Trick glances over at me then takes a bite of his butter and jellied toast with eggs piled on top. He may have militant control over his emotions, but I don’t. My grin steals my face. For years my father gave me a disapproving scowl at the breakfast table for my jelly, toast, and egg concoction. But now, I’ve found my breakfast soul mate.
“What?” he mumbles over a mouthful, squinting at me.
“OMG! It’s official; we’re BFFs.”
He finishes chewing then takes a swig of his juice. “No way…” he shakes his head “…if you ever use OMG and BFF in the same sentence again we’re O.V.E.R! Got it?”
My grin has taken up permanent residence on my face. I talk in code all day at work, so I’m not really the ditzy acronym girl; I was just playing with him. However, his growly reaction was so freaking hot, I know I’ll end up poking the bear again and again.
Shoving in a big bite, I tap his foot with mine. “We’re breakfast soul mates and you know it,” I mumble while wiping the corners of my mouth with my fingers. “What are the chances that we both like jellied toast with scrambled eggs on top? Seriously, like one in a gazillion.”
He slides over the jar he grabbed from the spice cabinet. “First, I like jellied toast with over easy eggs.” He glares at me. “Second, I add cayenne pepper to my eggs. And I’m pretty sure the whole thing is far from an original idea.”
Grasping the jar of cayenne like a drawn sword, I accept his challenge. The spicier the better, another OMG-we’re-so-meant-to-be-BFFs moment. However, I keep that to myself, for now. The idea of us being O.V.E.R terrifies me because this has to be as good as it gets—super squirrel sans shirt, sexy tats, and eating eggs on jellied toast. Nirvana.
Trick observes me with a curious look, eyes dilated, lips firm to resist the twitch-smirk. I sprinkle on enough cayenne to permanently burn off my taste buds, then take a bite. Chewing slowly, I grin while savoring the sweet and fiery collision along my tongue and down my throat.
“What are you thinking?” My nerves release the hostage words that have been shackled in my throat since we met. Every look feels like an undecipherable riddle; I’m tired of guessing.
He looks down at his plate then takes another bite before looking at me again. “I’m trying to figure you out.”
I almost choke on my laugh. “Me? You can’t be serious. I’m the epitome of an open book. I’ve told you just about everything about me. What more could you possibly want to know?”
Trick slides his plate away and rests his folded arms on the counter, closer to me. His eyes flicker over my face and hair, then down my body before meeting mine again. “I want to know why you’re here with me?”
Gulp!
He might as well ask me the meaning of life. It’s a simple question with an infinitely impossible answer, but I look for it anyway.
His eyes don’t hold the answer, his lips are a gateway to something he finds amusing in me, and so I look at the brilliant rainbow of ink along his arms, chest, and back. The stars, small flowers, feathers, symbols, and sanskrit—they could mean nothing; they could mean everything.
I’m attracted to him, but not delusional. He will never look at me the way I look at him … yet, I’m here. So I shrug realizing the answer is me, not him. “I like me with you.”
He stares at my lips; he does that a lot. He’s probably thinking I could use a Botox injection. Fat chance! “Who are you with me?” Turning to face me, he pulls my chair closer to his so my legs go between his.
Sucking in a breath, I grab my toast and take another bite to hide my nerves. He has short, dark chest hair that trails downward, disappearing beneath his jeans. On the left side of his abs there are black sanskrit symbols etched to a bold perfection. I love looking at him.