“I’m so sorry.”
I run my finger over the words slowly, to show him I see them, and then I clutch the bill in my hand and stuff it in my pocket. “Drink up, cowboy,” I say, tilting my coffee back and finishing it off. I’ve had three cups this morning, and my nerves are teeming from all of the caffeine. I drink coffee when I’m stressed. I realize the contradiction of it all, how I’m working against myself. But it doesn’t seem to stop me.
Cody wraps his hand around his mug and looks at it a good long while before he lifts it to his lips and takes a loud slurping sip, like a kid with hot cocoa. The sound makes me laugh, and he winks at me, his cheeks wrinkling with his smile—it’s back, and it’s heavenly.
After another minute of looking at his cup, Cody sets it down and pushes it away. I’m staring at him now, and I know it, but I can’t seem to stop. He’s wearing a clean white T-shirt, but last night’s jeans—I recognize them. His hands, his face, his hair—he’s a mess, every bit of his rough night worn on his body. But it has my guts twisting, my insides aching. And deep down, I know the way I’m looking at him is about being more than friends. But I squeeze my eyes tightly to wring out those thoughts and force myself to remember that that’s all we are. We’re friends.
“I think you owe me some change,” he says, his voice a little scratchy. He coughs to clear his throat, and I lean forward on my elbow, raising a brow to question him. “The coffee? There’s no way I’m making it to the two-for-one deal. It’s pretty much the worst shit I’ve ever had.”
He busts out laughing mid-sentence, unable to keep a straight face. I start to laugh, too, knowing I really have no idea how to brew coffee. I only started drinking it in college—and I usually buy my cup at Starbucks. I smile at him and shake my head, instinctively reaching forward to touch him. I push his arm with a tease, and he stops it before I can pull away, grabbing my fingers and wrapping them in his own. Suddenly, he’s holding my hand. He’s holding my hand!
I let him, and watch as his fingers slowly lock into place with mine, the twists of ink and words along them like black keys on a piano against my pale skin. I steal a glance at him to see his eyes intent on our tangled hands, his gaze soft, but guarded. He’s being so careful. My mind is betraying everything I’m fighting to hold onto with visions of his mouth on mine, my lips tingling at the thought of kissing him, tasting him.
Reality slams into me hard, though, when I hear Trevor’s booming laugh enter the foyer—along with someone else’s. I jump from my seat and slap my hands to both cheeks to wake myself from the dream I was just indulging in. I shake my head, and briefly lock eyes with Cody, who’s smirking back at me, almost amused at my harried state. Before Trevor makes it to us, I turn to the sink and start rinsing dishes—dishes that, frankly, are already clean.
He’s telling the man who’s with him a story as he enters the kitchen, and I’m grateful he’s distracted from the redness that’s now taken up residence across my entire body.
“I can’t believe that ass**le told you that!” Trevor says to his friend, leaning over my shoulder to kiss me while he drops his keys and wallet on the counter. It takes him all of three seconds to realize Cody’s here, and I can feel his insult coming before he unleashes it. “What? Still don’t have your own f**kin’ coffeemaker? Freeloader,” Trevor says, rolling his eyes and turning his attention back to his friend.
What days ago only made me uncomfortable, today has me angry and ready to jump to Cody’s defense. I’m squeezing the knife in my hand while I rinse off the blade then turn to drop it in the dishwasher. I catch Cody’s eyes and mouth to him “I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t seem to be bothered. He raises his mug and gets to his feet, tipping his cup to take one more sip before stopping and remembering how terrible it tastes. He spits it back in, and I laugh quietly at him.
Trevor is watching us. Not wanting to make a big deal out of anything, I just smile, shrug, and turn back to the running water. I’m half-listening to Trevor and his friend talk when I realize he’s trying to get my attention. I turn the water off and dry my hands while his friend is reaching his hand to me. “Charlotte, this is Kevin. He’s Judge Sumner’s nephew,” Trevor says, his tone subtle, but I understand what he’s trying to tell me. Kevin’s important, and I need to make a good impression.
“Kevin, nice to meet you. Do you live out here? Or are you just visiting?” I ask, my mind only half paying attention to Kevin—the rest of me completely aware of Cody’s presence, every move and every breath. I had thought he’d run the second Trevor showed up, and while I’m glad he stayed, it’s also making me nervous.