Sugar & Ice

Chapter 2

I eat my lunch on a bench outside to avoid being convicted of murder. Mindy is pulling at my sanity with her perfectly manicured hands and I don't know how much longer I can last doing a three-person job. Quitting is a fantasy I indulge in my every spare moment, but I know I can't go through with it. Sigh, munch, and repeat.

I pick up my overused book with a half-naked guy next to a mussed up lady in 18th century clothing and get lost in the story of passion, love and betrayal.

If I could ignore the work part, my day looks kind of okay. It's sunny outside, there are ducks quacking in the lake in front of me and I received a free lemon cake when I went to pick up my lunch. I almost hugged the girl at the counter. As long as I sit on this spot, life can't touch me. People could pass by and think to themselves huh, what a lovely day to read smutty historical romances or seeing that girl wearing pastel colors made me think of candy and then I could die happy.

It's so peaceful and quiet that I can hear every crunch of foot on the cobblestone. I don't raise my head to people-watch because I'm trying to contain my giggles as I read a particular spicy carriage scene, but my head snaps up the moment my bench groans under the weight of someone else.

'What?' I ask, no polite preamble.

This is my time and he's one of the people I would not want to have any conversations outside office hours. Sure, I can admire how his double-breasted jacket hugs his muscular form, how well navy compliments his olive skin, how lustrous his hair looks when light mingles in the onyx threads, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let my guard down. It's a been-there-done-that sort of situation.

Finland takes a newspaper from under his hand and folds it neatly between us. There's a coffee cup from the same place I went to get my lunch and I can see some digits written in sharpie there - Marie's phone number most likely. The barista likes men with serial killer eyes that tip well.

I ignore the needling feeling and try for my best fuck-off face.

He's unimpressed. After all, he's the one proficient in pushing people as far away as possible. Stretching his mile-long legs in front, he crosses them at the ankles looking disturbingly at ease.

'This seat taken?' he asks, already sitting.

I haven't heard his voice since he called after me two days ago. Today it sounds no softer, but there's a new hesitancy in the amber of his eyes. Nope skin, no need to prickle in awareness, he's not your friend. He never was.

I close my book over my index finger and pray my expression is neutral.

'There are fifty other benches,' I say as sharply as my voice would allow. 'Use one of those and antagonize someone else.'

His head cocks to the side and there's a subtle movement in his strong brows. While I'm at it - and I don't normally let myself indulge in cataloging his features - I spend some extra heartbeats on the strong nose that's probably in a plastic surgeons' catalogue, I notice the angular slope of his cheeks, the warm-toned skin that seems absorb light hungrily, the lines of his jaw and the dark scruff that peeks out. I don't overstay my welcome when it comes to those eyes because I'm afraid they'll see too much. Mom always said I'm an open book.

I focus instead on the space between our bodies and almost scoff. His side is arranged meticulously while mine is a cluttered mess of sandwich wrapper, crumbs from my cake, the plastic container and fork still balanced on my lilac knees. Compared to him, I am a dirty little pig.

'Reading porn puts you into a work mood?' Did his voice drop an octave or was I imagining?

A blush crept from my nose to my ears, but I refused to cower.