Chapter 3 #2
“Pretty sure I’m already there,” he says with a rough snort. A pink bill replaces his card and sinks through the slot on the top of the tip jar, joining the pile of coins. “That doesn’t mean I’ll stop.”
I knock my knuckles to the side of the jar. “And enough with the tipping. You can’t buy my phone number from me.”
“If I thought I could do that, I’d have tipped far more than a fifty. I’m just thanking you for your customer service.”
“Right.”
It isn’t as if he hasn’t been doing the same thing for months now. Four of them, to be exact.
At first, I assumed he was just playing around, like he was trying to get his rocks off by bothering me.
I recognized him the moment he stepped into Blank Page for the first time.
Time hasn’t been cruel to him in the slightest. I may not be a huge baseball fan, but I didn’t need to be.
There wasn’t a stitch of green or grey on him, yet there was no doubt in my mind that he was the same Beckett Rourke that I knew throughout junior and high school, only after all this time, he actually had a real reason to act like his shit doesn’t stink.
Athletes are easy to spot once you know what you’re looking for, especially ones like him.
His shoulders were pulled back, and his eyes, while hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, swept through the place like he knew what he was looking for before he so much as took three steps inside.
Once he realized there wasn’t anyone here who was going to run up to him and ask them to sign something, his posture relaxed, and he prowled to the counter with what I can only describe as swagger.
And not the kind that made me want to yack, either.
It was sexy more than anything else.
What I wasn’t expecting was for him to stop on the opposite side of the counter and start flirting without recognizing me in return.
Sure, the last time we saw each other was ten years ago, but I never forgot him. I couldn’t, regardless of how many times I forced myself to try. It’s something that’s pissed me off more often than not.
So, no, I don’t want to give him my number. Nor do I want to be the one who’s constantly forced to serve him, even if Callie thinks she’s doing something here for me.
“Would it be so bad? Going on a date with me?” he asks, leaning a hip against the counter now.
I take a single step back and cross my arms, hiking my mental walls up. Then, I turn my head toward Eli and call, “One medium caramel macchiato with extra caramel drizzle and three pumps of vanilla syrup.”
He waves his hand over his shoulder to signal that he’s heard me but makes no effort to take my place. I didn’t expect that he would.
“That’s not my usual,” Beck says.
“No?”
Humour lights in his eyes, making the gold flecks floating amongst the green twinkle. “You know what, I think I was wanting to try something new today. Thank you, Quinn.”
“My pleasure,” I say through clenched teeth.
Practically seething, I tug at the front of my apron and take another look at the door behind him, hoping that someone will come and give me an excuse to leave this conversation.
The little bell above the door doesn’t chime, and the air stays stagnant, the summer breeze having no chance to blow inside.
“I’m still waiting for an answer, Quinn,” he says after a weighted pause.
“To what?”
“Do you truly think it would be so bad to go out on a date with me? We wouldn’t have to go anywhere public if you didn’t want to. Is that the reason behind your constant refusal?”
Disbelief fuels my words. “Do you hear yourself when you speak?”
“Not too well, apparently,” he says slowly, his eyes flicking between mine, searching.
“I’m not interested. I know rejection isn’t a concept that you could possibly understand, but I have no desire to get mixed up with a guy like you.
” I fist my hips, gripping my apron as I ignore the pulse in my hot cheeks.
“You can come here as many times as you want, but my answer isn’t going to change. ”
“What kind of guy do you think I am, Quinn?”
His question isn’t one I was expecting.
I didn’t expect him to ask anything at all, truthfully.
My pause doesn’t deter him. He fastens his gaze on me and knocks his knuckles against the counter, leaning the wide expanse of his torso over it.
Closer to me now than he’s ever been, he seems to steal the air right from my lungs.
His presence is intimidating, and it eats at my resolve as I release the fabric bunched in my fingers and smooth the wrinkles.
I blink and force myself to speak, too aware of what this is—who.
“The type who believes he can use his looks and his name to get whatever he wants whenever he wants it.”
His smile is slow growing, almost teasing.
It has alarm bells blaring in my head and throbbing in my ears.
I fix my features into a cool glare and nudge my chin toward the door.
Eli’s already slid the macchiato onto the pickup counter, and I jump at the opportunity to snag it and shove it toward Beck.
He lets his fingers brush mine when he takes it, drawing a cough up my throat. Anger makes my palms sweat when I drop it to my side.
“See you tomorrow, Quinny,” he drawls, his voice a low, flirty caress.
With a smooth, confident movement, he strolls out of the café.
The sickeningly sweet coffee I ordered for him surely has his stomach turning when he takes a testing sip and pulls the door open.
Yet, when he winks at me over his shoulder and lifts the cup into the air in a cheers motion, there’s no sign of the discomfort I was hoping for.
I puff out a breath and turn away.
Fucking athletes.