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If I had to categorize myself, I would say I'm only slightly drunk, teetering on the edge of sobering up as I sit in an early morning diner with a pair of sweatpants and his hoodie on. It was in the backseat of his car considering I'd forgotten mine in the club, but I can proudly say that I remembered pants before walking out of my place of employment.
I didn't hold back when I ordered a plateful of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and all the grease in the world to attempt to curb this approaching hangover. I have a glass of water to my right and my pink tote bag on my left, emphasized lettering staring me down.
I can almost hear the lightbulb above us buzzing with electricity, but it's drowned out by the sound of Stephen Sanchez playing from a jukebox in the corner. It's a soft hum, yet I can feel the melody flow through my veins.
I find my eyes fluttering closed for a moment, taking in the peacefulness of the moment before they open again.
Angel is seated across from me, sipping on a mug of peppermint tea as he rests his elbows on the table. His legs are so long that they're stretched over to my side but he adjusts them so that all I feel is the warmth radiating from his pant leg. It even invades the two layers of clothing between us.
I purse my lips, fighting off the incoming drunken slurred speech, "I didn't peg you for a peppermint guy." I say successfully, eyes meeting his. My breath hitches in my throat at the intensity of his stare. It also doesn't help that his irises are two different colors, furthering the intrigue and pure need to just inspect them. It's like an instinct at this point.
It's heightened when I'm surrounded by his scent. I feel like an animal in heat. Maybe I should check my cycle calendar.
"I didn't peg you for a drunk at -" He lifts his wrist with his watch, "-6 AM girl."
I scrunch my nose, "Guess we're what neither of us expected." Ignoring the look he gives me, I bite into my pancake before gently cutting another and stabbing it. I lift it to him and give him a small smile, "Pancake?" Considering he hasn't consumed anything but tea, I can only assume that he's hungry.
"I'm not hungry."
My brows fall, "Don't lie to me right now."
He rolls his eyes and I find myself about to cry for some reason, "I'm not hungry, Talia."
"Yes, you are, asshole."
His brows furrow, "No, I'm not."
"Yes," I damn near demand, "You are."
"And how do you know?"
"I just do. Eat." Finally, he wraps his lips around my fork and pulls the pancake off with his teeth, and chews. I watch in annoyance and slight interest. He's handsome when he eats. Hell, he's handsome when he breathes. That doesn't mean I'm folding easily. Or at all.
