150. Sterling
Chapter 150
Sterling
I can smell lunch before I even open the door to the Food Hall, and my stomach lets out a grumble.
Stepping inside, I can see that everyone is already here. But my eyes still find Courtney first.
She’s standing over by Cook on the other side of the counter. And on the counter is the pizza I could smell from outside.
Cook doesn’t make homemade pizza too often. Claims the crust is a pain in the ass. And judging by the amount he needs to fill two large trays, I don’t doubt it.
But it’s one of my favorite meals.
I flex my fingers. Usually Cook only makes pizza for special occasions, and I have to wonder if he did it today because of the way we handled that man last night.
He wasn’t with us, but the guys are all close, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole story has been shared among them already. Probably last night when we got back, considering they all sleep in the same damn room.
But so long as no one says anything to Courtney, it doesn’t bother me.
I get into the back of the line and arrange it so I’m getting slices off the tray in front of Courtney.
She seems extra small today, standing all the way over there, on the other side of the counter.
Or maybe the small feeling is more equated to fragility. And my fear of something bad happening to her.
I give myself a mental punch in the face.
She’s right here.
Right in front of me.
And this morning, mere hours ago, she was underneath me.
Alive as ever with my seed streaked across her back.
Courtney presses her lips together, trying to stop a smile. And failing.
“Court.” I dip my chin.
“Hi.” It comes out a little breathy. She clears her throat. “Um, how much would you like?”
It’s my turn to press my lips together.
She rolls her eyes. “How many slices of pizza?”
I hold my plate out. “As much as you can fit.”
Shaking her head, she piles five squares on my plate.
Since it’s just the employees in here, everyone is spread out over two tables rather than crammed onto one. Giving us more elbow room.
I pick the only empty bench, sitting across from Fisher, ensuring that Courtney can sit next to me if she’d like. And it only takes a minute before she sets her plate down to the left of mine.
But instead of sitting, she goes back behind the counter.
Curious, I watch as she pulls out a rectangular metal pan from a hidden shelf under the counter.
My brows pull together as she carries it over and sets it on the end of our table.
“What’s that?” Leon calls from the far end of the other table.
I don’t look over at him.
Because all of my attention is focused on the large pan next to me that’s filled with… cake.
I slowly lift my gaze up to Courtney.
She’s looking across at Leon. “It’s a cake. ”
“What kind?” Simpson asks.
“Funfetti with cream cheese frosting.” Courtney picks up a knife and starts to cut the cake into slices.
“Fun what?” Leon asks.
“Funfetti.” Fisher repeats Courtney’s answer.
Cook brings over a stack of small side plates and sets them down next to Courtney.
“It means there’s sprinkles inside the cake,” Simpson explains. “It’s my youngest’s favorite.”
I stare at the slice of white cake full of multicolored spots as Courtney sets one on a plate.
She hands it to Fisher and tells him to pass it down.
Courtney repeats the process until everyone at both tables has a piece.
Cook finally grabs his own food and drops down next to Fisher, then starts up a conversation with the kid.
While Courtney is setting down her own piece of cake next to her plate, I look at the table.
At the pizza.
At the cake.
At the bottles of root beer Cook shared with everyone out of his personal stash.
It looks like we’re having a damn party.
Courtney places her hands on the table as she climbs onto the bench.
As she twists, her hand moves so it’s between my plate and the edge of the table over my lap.
It’s casual.
Nothing.
But when she sits down and moves her hand, there’s a small slip of paper left behind.
I grab my napkin and bump the paper off the table and into my open palm.
It’s a scrap of lined paper, probably torn off a page from the clipboard .
Picking up a slice of pizza with one hand, I carefully unfold the note in my lap with the other.
And the two words slither off the page and under my skin.
Happy Birthday.
I flatten my palm over the paper.
I blink.
I swallow.
I blink again.
Then I set the pizza slice down, push my plate to the side, and replace it with the cake plate.
My fork falls through the fluffy slice.
If Courtney had asked my favorite cake flavor that night when we stayed awake talking until dawn, I would have said chocolate.
And I would have been wrong.
Because when I take a bite of my birthday cake, I swear it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.