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I duck back out to the table. We all crushed the box of donuts. There are only crumbs left. I manage to fit the empty box into a recycling bin already overflowing with bottles. “Um, hm. I guess I did mention that to him.”
“Why?” She picks up a few paper napkins and tosses them into the trash.
Now that the table’s cleared, I swipe a rag over it. It’s wild how many chocolate-icing and jelly-filling streaks we managed to make over the course of one meal.
“Because it’s unusual. Old-fashioned.” I carry the rag to the sink and drop it in. “It was one of the few things I knew about you, and I sorta formed a whole story about it. That, and your landline.”
She follows me into the kitchen, her cell phone now in her hands.
“You do have a cell, so why the landline?” I gesture to the phone she’s now looking at.
She looks at the device and cringes with guilt. “Agh, sorry, I’m on it again, aren’t I? It’s another addiction.”
She sets it down with an air of determination and then leans against the counter. “Landlines are helpful in my town because sometimes the cell service is spotty. It’s good to have backup in case of an emergency.”
She smells deliciously good—like sugary icing and salty ocean air. Sunlight filters through the blinds beside us and lights up her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. I again notice how beautiful she is without makeup.
The temptation to go in for a kiss hits me like a linebacker.
Nearly knocks me off my feet.
My voice sounds sort of croaky when I go on. “For some reason, I always pictured you in your sixties… with a cat crossing the keyboard and a cup of tea at your elbow. Maybe a cardigan buttoned up to your neck.”
She laughs. “Really?”
“Really. Told you, I made up a story. Filled in the blanks I didn’t know.”
“You got my age wrong. And I don’t have a cat. I drink coffee, not tea.”
“You drink coffee like a champ, Sport. I saw the way Jasmine kept filling your cup.”
“I think I’m addicted. Also, let’s talk about this nickname of yours. I’m not sure I like it.”
“There are worse things you could be hooked on than coffee. And that’s how nicknames go. They choose you, not the other way around.”
I pretend to brace when she gives me a feather-light shove.
“Oof!” I make a big show of going backward and bouncing back. “Okay, so… cardigan? Or was I off about that, too?”
“I don’t even own one cardigan.” She holds up a finger to show me. “Not a single one.”
“Then, what do you wear when you’re typing up those perfectly polite missives of yours?”
Is it wrong that I want to know as much as possible about her before this week ends?
“I usually work in a hoodie and sweats, which sounds lazy. I’m gonna change that up when I get home.”
“Making some changes, hm?”
She nods, and her teasing smile fades. “I think I had to get away to realize what a rut I was in.” She gets a far-off look about her as she studies the dishes in the sink. “So, yeah, some things are going to change.”
It sweeps through me again—that urge to kiss her.
Maybe it’s because now she looks a little sad. I want to pull her out of whatever spiral she’s slipping into.
If I could kiss her right now, I know I could make her stop worrying about whatever is pinching the corners of her eyes, tugging at her pretty lips.
Even just thinking about kissing her makes this magnetic pull start up between her body and mine. I want to close the gap between us.
