Hendrix finally relents, sliding the basket of sweeteners across the table, and I rip open a packet. "You never answered the question," he says.
"What question was that?" I ask. "The one where you asked if some sugar would do me any good?"
"No," Hendrix says. "The one where I asked if you're still harboring an old grudge."
I shrug. "Can't harbor something you never cared about to begin with."
I'm lying. Hendrix was the biggest dick ever, but especially in the months before he left for the Marines, when he apparently decided he was just too cool to hang out with the wholesome little country singer. But that didn't erase the months before that, when we became close friends. And all that time I fantasized about being more than just friends. And that one time, when he kissed me, when we were much more than just friends.
But Hendrix Cole's sugar is exactly the last thing on God's green earth I need to be thinking about now, after what just happened with the record label.
"Well, I was a dickhead," Hendrix says.
"Past tense?" I ask.
"You know, all the shit I gave you, I never --" Hendrix clears his throat and leans forward, his forearms on the table. But, with perfect timing, the waitress interrupts him again.
"Well, now, I've got your eggs and bacon and sausage and biscuits right here," she says, setting the plates down in front of us and dropping a jar of syrup on the table in the middle of the array of plates.
"You eat all of this every time you come here?" I stare at the pile of food in disbelief. "I'm not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed."
"Now, hang on," Beatrice says. "That's not all of it. I didn't have enough room on the tray for everything, so I'll be back with the pancakes and pie." She flounces off.
"Did she say pancakes and pie?"
Hendrix grins. "They have good pie," he says.
"Who eats pie for breakfast? And who eats pancakes and pie?"
"I can have pie with breakfast. I'm an adult."
"You sure could have fooled me," I say, taking a long gulp of my coffee. I don't know whether I believe there's a new and improved grown-up Hendrix lurking under that muscled exterior.
But Beatrice brings the pancakes and the pie, and I suddenly realize I'm ravenous. We dig into the food and Hendrix is Hendrix -- inappropriate and stupid -- and soon I'm forgetting everything that's passed between us, and I'm laughing so hard I snort coffee up my nose, which makes me laugh even harder. It feels good to laugh. It's been a long time since I laughed the way I'm laughing now.
And then we're finished eating before I remember that I've forgotten to ask what the hell the plan is here.
"Well, fuck me sideways," Hendrix says, whistling as he stands in the foyer to the apartment and looks around.
"You're very classy."
Hendrix shrugs. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I've never pretended to be classy, sweet cheeks."
"Stop calling me that," I say, shutting the door. "It's too – "
I pause. I want to say that it's too much like something a pet name a boyfriend would use, but just the thought of equating Hendrix with my boyfriend makes my heart race, and I don't know why.
"It's too what?" he asks. "I can't just call you Addy all the time. What would be the fun in that?"
I roll my eyes. "I call you Hendrix."
"That's because you're boring."
"Whatever. I'm a music star. As if you're more interesting than I am."
Hendrix laughs, and as annoyed as I am with him, the sound immediately fills the room with warmth. "Sure you are, sugar tits."
"That's a much worse nickname."
"Well, I told you to be happy with sweet cheeks." Hendrix walks across the living room, pulling back the blinds by the window and peering outside, then surveying the room like he's on a mission. I watch him for a minute, before following him into the kitchen and down the hallway.
"Need help with anything?" I ask, not even trying to hide my sarcasm. I was playing nice before, but he's basically invited himself into my apartment and now he's walking around like he owns the damn place.
"Nope." Hendrix peers inside one of the bedrooms.
"That wasn't an offer," I say. "I was being sarcastic. Most people don't just poke their noses around someone else's house. Most people say, oh you have a lovely home, why yes, I'd love a cup of coffee, and then they sit their asses down on the sofa and have a cup of coffee. Or whatever."
Hendrix turns around to face me, and I inhale sharply at his proximity. He smells like soap and aftershave, something clean, with just the hint of cologne I can't quite place. It's woodsy and manly and…I can't help it, I breathe in his scent deeply. Suddenly, I'm some kind of weirdo that goes around sniffing men.
I hope Hendrix didn't notice. How would I explain that? Sorry, I was just inhaling your scent? I promise I don't keep a lock of your hair under my pillow.
I haven't gotten enough sleep. That's what it is. I must be losing my mind.
"You're vulnerable," Hendrix says, looking down at me. His voice is deep, ragged, and electricity runs through my body at the sound, making me jump just as if he had touched me.