She throws her hands in the air. “I know!”
“It explains a lot about why you’re such a hot mess,” I tell her with a grin, wanting to make her smile again.
“Same,” she says, nodding her chin to me.
“Our relationship histories are totally depressing,” I say. “Tell me something funny.”
She sighs, thinking. Finally, she says, “Vagina roughly translates to sword holder in Latin.”
I turn to look at her. “It was named for the penis?”
“This surprises you?” she asks, looking at me in shock. “Hello? Patriarchy.”
“But even back in the day?” I say. “They spoke Latin. That means everyone knew that vagina meant sword holder. It wasn’t like now where most people don’t know that meaning. A woman would have to refer to her parts as her sword holder. ‘How’s the sword holder?’ ‘Alas, it’s pretty empty right now.’ ”
“Her ‘parts’?” she repeats with an amused grin.
“What?” I ask, smiling back at her. “You called it your ladybird.”
“True.” She lets her head fall back against the couch again, groaning. “Now I’m all gross and sad thinking about Justin. I need sugar.”
“Left side of sink, top cabinet.” She rolls her head to look at me, and I add, “It’s where I keep the treats.”
“Bless you.” London pushes to stand and I stare at her ass as she walks away and into the kitchen. I hear her banging around in the cabinets, and then she yells, “Oh my God! Are you okay?”
I sit up, worried. “Yeah, why?”
“You have an open Pop-Tart package with a Pop-Tart in it.”
I deflate in relief, get off the couch, and wander into the kitchen. “Yeah. I had one this morning.”
Her mouth is agape when she turns to me, holding up the package and saying, “Who the hell has one Pop-Tart?”
“I sense . . .” I lick my finger, holding it up in the air. “Yes, I sense mocking in your tone.”
“I bet you’re one of those yokels who buys the Pop-Tart—sized Tupperware.”
I narrow my eyes, slowly repeating, “ ‘Yokels’?”
“Meaning not only do you not eat both Pop-Tarts like a real man,” she continues, ignoring me, “but you also need an airtight container because you won’t eat the other one within an hour.”
I lean back against the counter, smiling at her.
“I bet you don’t even like scotch,” she teases. “Do you have a real penis?”
This makes me laugh and I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from pulling her close to me with a finger hooked through her belt loop.
Tilting her head, she asks, “Do you order salads for lunch?”
“You’ve seen me eat nachos,” I remind her.
“Once. And they were vegetarian.”
I open my mouth to argue but she cuts me off. “I can see it in your face! You usually order salads. With your dressing on the side!”
This part isn’t actually true but I’m having too much fun watching her unravel to contradict her.
She shakes the Pop-Tart wrapper. “I would eat this Pop-Tart to help you out, you know, to even up the asymmetry currently poisoning your box, but seeing as how there is only one, it’s a snack dilemma.”
Nodding in understanding, I say, “You wouldn’t be satisfied with only one.”
“Exactly.” She shoves it back in the box. “It’s like eating only half a banana.”
I shiver. “Who eats an entire banana?”
London stills, looking at me like I might have damaged my head. “Who doesn’t?”
“Me,” I tell her emphatically. “By the last few bites it’s this awful”—I shudder—“intense banana flavor. It doesn’t matter how big the banana is, I can’t handle it.”
“You’re weird.”
I shrug, palms up. “Apparently. But see, I like to take my time with that one Pop-Tart.” She groans when she registers where I am going with this. “You, on the other hand—”
“Stop.”
“—are welcome to have as many Pop-Tarts as you want when you’re here.”
She pins me with a wary half smile and I watch as she fights it, finally giving in and letting the grin take over her entire mouth. My chest feels hot, pulse too fast. It’s like the anticipation before a match but infinitely better. Whatever it is, it makes me drunk on her. Being near her, making her smile makes me feel incredible. She can see it and I let her. I’m fucking drunk on this girl.
Finally, exhaling a shaky breath, she smacks my chest. “You’re hopeless.”
I grab her hand before she can pull it away, resting it on my chest. I know she can feel my heart pounding, and if what I’m watching happen with her pulse in her throat is any indication, her heart is beating just as hard.
I smile, and watch as it softens something in her expression. “I think you’re right,” I tell her.
Chapter THIRTEEN
London
I ORDER ANOTHER CAPPUCCINO and weave through the small line to get back to my seat. Most of the staff here know me by name and don’t mind when I spend hours at my favorite table: the one near the outlet that actually works. They know I like one Sugar in the Raw in my coffee and that I’ll say I don’t want a blueberry muffin but usually end up ordering one anyway.
I’m a creature of habit and have been coming to this particular shop as long as I can remember. Summers meant weekdays surfing and then relaxing at Nana’s house, and Sunday mornings at Pannikin. She’d have her chai latte and let me order a hot chocolate and we would do the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, which basically meant Nana would do it and I would people-watch.
Even without her I’m unable to break the routine.
It’s April and despite it being the standard seventy—two degrees outside, it’s freezing in the store. I settle back into my chair and pull the cardigan out of my bag, buttoning it up before turning back to my laptop.
I blow into my coffee and look back to the screen, to the section of Lola’s site I’ve spent the last few hours coding. Her original designer had created a template full of neon colors and lots of animation, but I’ve dialed it back down to something a bit more subdued, a palette that will really let Lola’s art do the talking. Her images are geometric and bold, and practically jump off the screen. It’s strange that while I’ve been living around this art for the past eight months, I don’t think I’ve ever really appreciated how insanely talented Lola is until now.
The door opens and the air-conditioning kicks on directly over my head. I slink down into my sweater and pull my cup closer, hoping the warmth will seep into my fingers, when I hear my name.
Well, sort of.
“Logan?”
DANGER, DANGER.
I blink up to see Luke standing near the counter, and a rush of adrenaline shoots through my veins. His hair is messy and he’s dressed in a T-shirt and track pants, as if he’s just been for a run. Even a little sweaty—maybe because he looks a little sweaty?—he looks better than should be humanly possible. He pulls out his wallet to pay and my eyes drop automatically to the way the damp T-shirt clings to his shoulders and dips in at his waist, down to where his hip bones . . .
The chair across from me scrapes against the floor and I snap my head up to meet his eyes: brown and clearly amused to have caught me ogling him. He sits across from me, drink already in front of him, arms resting on the table, and takes his time doing his own—rather blatant—inspection. I clear my throat.