Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Of course.
Jason’s here, drumming his fingers on the counter, smiling like the happiest-go-luckiest dude. Well, sure. He probably got laid last night.
He lifts his chin in greeting. “Of all the gin joints in the city,” he says when I reach him.
“They serve gin here too? I had no idea San Francisco was such a gin-loving city,” I remark, then ask the barista for a coffee, black, and slide my phone across the card reader.
“So, what do you think of my fine city so far?” Jason asks. Emphasis on my. Like I’m encroaching on his turf, after all.
Maybe he’s okay with us sharing a gym, but his coffee shop is a step too far? Fuck if I know. I’m unfamiliar with the post-hand-job rules when bumping into my new crosstown rival.
“Your city will do,” I say drily.
“I’m from here. That’s why I say my city. I fucking love this place. I might be addicted to San Francisco.”
Ah, okay. He’s the kind of guy who wants me to like his hometown. It’s pride, not possession.
“It’s cool so far,” I say. “I’ve only been here for a few days.” He probably knows that. It’s Thursday, and I was traded on Sunday. “But I got a place already,” I add as the barista brews my coffee.
“You move fast,” he says.
I frown. Is there a double meaning there? Like I moved fast that one night?
Shut it, Cafferty. Just because you can’t get past that encounter doesn’t mean he’s obsessed with it.
“Yeah, well. I sort of needed to. I found a nice spot in Hayes Valley,” I say.
“Sweet. There’s a great boba place there. Also, a fun pinball arcade I go to with my friends,” he says.
Is he an ambassador for The City by the Bay? I’m not even sure why he’s making small talk . . . except, didn’t he mention this when he gave me media tips? This is his press persona—Mister Glad Hand, who gets along with everyone. I try to let go of my annoyance. His playing tour guide doesn’t have to frustrate me.
“I’ll check them out,” I say.
The barista hands Jason a cup full of thick blue goop. “Thanks, Ben,” Jason tells him.
“Anytime.”
Jason lifts the cup, tapping it with his finger as he turns to me. “I’m back on blueberries. The mango smoothie did me dirty in my first game,” he says.
“Maybe you should order the mango smoothie, then,” I deadpan, giving him an evil grin.
If we’re going to be two rivals who rib each other, I will lean all the way in.
His bright blue eyes widen in disbelief. “Can’t believe you want me to lose,” he says, in faux shock.
“Says the man who wants to destroy me on the field,” I counter.
The barista clears his throat and holds out my cup as if he’s been waiting for more than a few seconds. Oh.
“Your drink,” Ben says, then nods for me to get out of the way.
With the coffee in hand, I do, stepping toward the door.
Where Jason is heading.
Fuck my luck.
I hunt for an innocuous topic as we happen to exit together. “How’s Bandit?”
Jason grins like a fool in love. “He grew up to be an asshole cat. I named him Taco. We had a date last night watching A Gentleman’s Deal.”
My lips twitch, but I don’t let it turn into a grin. The special guy is his cat, not a dude. That’s fucking adorable. “Why’d you change his name?”
“He seems like a Taco,” Jason says, but it’s too laid-back.
I don’t buy it. There’s a reason for the new name, and I think I know what it is. “What makes a cat seem like a Taco?” I ask—because I want to get to the bottom of what happened to Bandit.
Plus, this exchange is so much more enjoyable than the uncomfortable ones yesterday. And sure, I could take advantage of the relaxed atmosphere to tell him why I never showed up for our second date—but I don’t want to ruin this moment.
Jason takes a long pull of his smoothie. “Now you doubt my cat-naming abilities?”
“It’s not a now thing, McKay. I’ve always doubted your cat-naming abilities,” I point out.
“Yes, you have, Caff,” he says.
“So, you realized I was right about the cat needing a better name,” I add.
He arches a brow. “I believe you suggested Frank. Not Taco.”
“And I believe it’s safe to say Taco is better than Bandit.”
“I can’t believe you’re a Bandit hater. All around the world, cats named Bandit are crying in their coffee.” He flicks his fingers toward my drink. “By the way, I knew you’d be an I take my coffee black type of guy. See you around.”
He turns the other way, getting the last word in.
But maybe I did too.
He changed his pet’s name because of something I told him that night. Maybe he thinks of other moments from that evening, like how we kissed and touched.