Zoe blinks, her face morphing from one expression to the next. You can literally see it on her face, her brain working to accept this information. “Wait…wait…wait,” she mutters each time her confusion-filled gaze circles around the table. “Did you say…dads?”
“Don’t say anything mean,” Dora warns her. No pause, no stutter. It infuses my chest with secondhand pride.
Zoe’s face finally settles on surprise. “Ramos, you were marginally cool before. Now you’re on a pedestal. You were here”––she motions with her hand somewhere around the middle of her chest––“now you’re here.” The hand shoots above her head.
“Thanks for the visual. We wouldn’t have understood otherwise.” Blake smiles wryly.
Planting both palms on the table, Zoe leans in. “I need to know everything. Do they make out in front of you, and can I come over and watch?”
“Awww, Zoe,” spills out of me.
“C’mon, Zo,” Blake adds.
Dora rolls her eyes. “I’d rather not contemplate my parents’ sex life––and, no, you can’t.”
A loud rap at the window startles us. Outside, on the sidewalk, Reagan and Dallas wave. Dallas’s expression is all happy, sly mischief. Reagan’s on the other hand is straight-up determination.
All I need is another public scene.
“Speaking of assholes and idiots,” Zoe absently mutters.
I snort. “That’s not what we were discussing.”
“We are now. Game face on. Do not be nice to him.”
“Zoe…”
As soon as they step inside, Reagan heads for our table while Dallas makes for the register. I’m getting the full treatment, the unblinking stare, all of his undivided attention. Try as they may, not even the whistles and shouts of his loyal fandom can distract him.
Resentment and longing flood my veins, every fiber in my body feeling the effects of it. And by effects I don’t mean good ones. My pulse races while my stomach twists into knots and bows.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches our table.
I finally allow myself a good, hard look. His white t-shirt offsets his tan. His silky black track pants…well, frankly, they outline things I shouldn’t be looking at. He seems to have grown even more tempting in the separation. Wonderful.
Dora and Blake return a tight, “Hi.” Zoe opts to go with a disgruntled face.
“Hello,” I add a long moment later because I won’t allow him to turn me into a rude person.
He aims a smiling glance at the girl sitting on the bench at the next table and she immediately perks up. “Do you mind,” he says to her. “I need to sit with my friend.”
In that case, he needs a dictionary app so he can look up the definition of friendship. “Yes, she does mind,” I snap.
“No, I don’t,” girl-at-next-table insists and sends me an admonishing glare.
He’s all yours, sweetie, hangs from the tip of my tongue. Just dangles there. On the ready to be dropped.
She scoots over to make room for him and he squeezes in, despite my lack of invitation. Then he angles his body, giving her his back. Can’t say I didn’t warn her.
Sitting beside me, he takes up all the space like he’s entitled to it. Which, being six-foot two inches of solid muscle, means he’s everywhere at once. His leg, from hip to knee, touches mine. His scent, soap and laundry detergent and a hint of chlorine, is in the air. He’s too close. He’s much too close. By design, I’m sure.
“No, really, make yourself at home, Reynolds. We’re so psyched that you would bestow upon us the gift of your illustrious company,” drawls Zoe. Watching him closely, she raps four short, midnight blue nails on the wooden table. I shoot her a thin-lipped glare that screams cut it out and she rolls her eyes at me.
Reagan extends his arm on the back of the bench, shifts closer to me. To my great annoyance. “My pleasure,” he chirps with a wry smile.
His head dips, his mouth almost touching my ear. “I need to speak to you,” he whispers. The vibration resonates against the sensitive skin on the side of my neck. The warmth of his breath teases a full-body shiver out of me. My temperature shoots up. Apparently feverish isn’t just a turn of phrase.
“Can we have dinner? Like tonight? I need to explain and I really don’t want to do it with an audience.”
Before I have a chance to speak, Dallas returns with two large take-out cups and hands one to Reagan. Thanking him, he places it on the table next to mine.
“Fancy seeing you here, Bailey. We were just talking about you,” Dallas takes pleasure in telling me.
Reagan’s head rolls back. He palms his face. “Dall…” There’s an edge to his voice. This obviously leads me to wonder what they were discussing.
“What?” Dallas says, wearing the most suspiciously innocent look I’ve ever seen.
“Don’t,” Reagan warns him.
Dallas shrugs. His blue eyes take a lap around the table and come to rest on Dora. They sharpen. Curiosity blankets his face. “Do I know you?”
Dora squirms under his intense examination, doing everything in her power to avoid eye contact.
“Weren’t you at that Theta UCLA mixer? You’re Cat Woman, right? With the vinyl getup and the red lips?”
Cat Woman? He’s such an ass. A harmless one, I should clarify. Since I began filming the team I’ve learned two things about Dallas and both are one hundred percent accurate. The first, he has one of the most photogenic faces I’ve ever captured on film. And the second, he’s never been anything other than nice and helpful to me. That doesn’t negate the fact that Dallas is a major player––something he does not dispute. Problem is, I can’t figure out if he’s teasing her, or he’s actually serious.
The thought of Dora in a vinyl jumpsuit has me grinning despite the circumstance sitting next to me.
“W-we have class together,” she answers about a full minute later.
Without invitation, he sits on the bench, crams himself between her and another dude, his muscular arm stretching out over the back of the bench. “Russian lit.”
“English lit,” Dora is quick to correct.
“Right, that’s what I said.” He searches Dora’s face with a pointed look. His cornflower blue eyes narrow. “I know your name…I know it.” He taps his lips with his fingers. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.”
“That’s D-Dory. My name is Dora.”
“Huh. I guess that makes you an explorer.”
“And I guess that m-makes you unoriginal.”
Guffaws and snorts all around. Dallas grins and it’s not one I want to see directed at sweet Dora. I’m all for growth and experimentation. Hell, I’m sure that’s half the actual benefit of college. But this dude would not be good for her burgeoning self-esteem.
With his hand braced against the back of the bench, Dallas leans in, hovering over her, and she reacts by subtly shrinking away.
“Van Zant, step off my girl. You’re making her uncomfortable.” Zoe’s voice is a sharp knife cutting through all the chatter in the room, the threat clear.
“It’s fine,” Dora mutters.
“No. It’s not,” Zoe counters, staring a third-degree burn onto Dallas’s already tanned face. When he doesn’t move fast enough for her liking, her stare sharpens. “Now.”
Dallas leans back, takes Zoe’s measure, and grins. “Chill, mama cat. Kitten here has claws. She can speak for herself.”
“Kitten?” both Dora and Zoe say at once, their expressions on opposite ends of the spectrum. Dora’s surprised and Zoe’s disgusted.
Meanwhile Dallas is looking real proud of himself. “Isn’t that right, Kitten?”
“I just threw up in my mouth,” Zoe declares.
“S-stop calling me that.”
Dallas’s attention reverts to Zoe. “See?”
“I missed you,” the man on my right whispers in my ear. Exhaling a tired sigh, I meet him eye to eye. One way or another this is getting resolved today.
“Yeah, what did you miss? Using me as an emotional punching bag? Or someone to eat with because you don’t like to eat alone?” In his defense, he looks hurt.
“It’s not like that. You know it’s not.”
He leans closer. So close that I can count the faint freckles hidden under his deep tan. That I can pick out the sharp needles of dark blue in the rims of his green eyes. That I can see the regret etched in the grooves of his forehead.
“I was wrong.” He breathes deeply, pausing to gather his control. Then he lowers his voice. “I should never have treated you that way. I just…I…”
“What?”
“Would you two just fuck already,” comes from across the table. “The sexual tension is killing us!”
If anyone’s going to die it’ll be Zoe and it’ll be by my bare hands.
The entire coffee shop erupts…erupts. People cheering, clapping, whistling loudly. And I mean the entire place. She didn’t even speak that loudly––not for Zoe.
I erupt too. My face, that is. To the brightest shade of red on the Pantone color scale. This is my basic nightmare. Being the object of everyone’s attention. I can’t even look at Reagan. If I find indifference or worse, an awkward refusal on his face I will die. So I do the only thing I can do; I get up slowly and walk out.
“Alice,” Rea calls out.
“Alice, don’t leave,” Blake pleads.
Their voices trail after me as I pick my way between crowded tables.
“Zoe, that really crossed the line,” Blake scolds her in a hushed tone.
“You were all thinking it. Don’t pretend you weren’t. I just did them a favor,” Zoe argues in a much louder one.
“She’s right,” Dallas mutters.
I push through the glass door and take a deep breath. The crisp October air stings my lungs.