Ice To Meet You

Why so salTEA?

I walk back to our table and Liam is on his phone. Since the last time he was on his phone, I got Advil, I can't really be a bitch about it I guess. I sit down on my chair and he reaches over and interlocks his fingers in mine. I can feel the slight pressure of his fingers on the back of my hand and even though I am furious at his existence, I don't brush his touch off. Don't ask me why, I don't want to spell it out. I am a softie for his touch—however pissed off.

He is giving me 0 attention and a part of me is relieved. His hyper-focused gaze transfixed on me is something I am better off being spared from, for now at least.

"Will we be looking at desserts tonight?" Marco asks, and I can't help but reach for the menu.

"I will have a slice of tiramisu and do you have some peppermint tea?" Half a tiramisu won't kill me, but if I don't get some tea in me fast, my stomach might retaliate soon. I take a huge gulp of my apricot iced tea to aid against the scratchy feeling on the back of my throat. It doesn't feel better.

"I don't think we have peppermint tea, but we have chamomile tea," Marco states, his voice ever so apologetic.

"I would like that very much."

"I'll have cafè doppio," Liam announces, finally keeping his phone down. Must be my lucky day.

"What's café doppio?" Sounds fancy.

"It's a double shot of really strong espresso."

I should probably be ordering that since I have to stay up all night and finish up the article. "How will you sleep tonight?" I can't help myself from throwing it out there, not that I care. This swine deserves a sleepless night for being such a brute to me.

"I don't need more than 4 hours of sleep," he proudly declares, and I don't get it—who doesn't need 8 hours of well-rested sleep? I wake up cranky if I get 7 and a half.

"Is that why you're such a prick?" I realize after saying it out loud that it sounds crude but I don't care.

"He had it coming baby," Inner bitch cheers me on and I blow her a flying kiss.

He squeezes my hand firmly.

"I don't think your article was dog shit." The sincerity of his words unfathomably etched in his dilated pupils—pupils that are staring at me intently. I can't help but tremble.

It's like his eyes have a high voltage radiating from them and every time I look at them, there is a sensation that is activated within me. I curl my toes to conceal the reaction my treacherous body has to him.

"Mia," he purrs, bringing me back to reality—Oops! He's waiting for me to say something. What were we talking about?

"Article Mia, he was lying about your article not being dog shit because he doesn't want you to feel bad," Inner voice chimes in, getting me back on track.

Thanks, babe.

"You won't say that after you've read it," I smirk.

"Already did."

Hold up—wait! What?

"Say whaa," I screech, failing to hold in my shock.

"I just read your article, and I don't think it is dog shit." My heart beat races, and there is a fear crawling on my back. How did he—what are we—who did he?

Marco places our beverages on the table, keeps the tiramisu in front of me and leaves without saying a word. The tension on the table is unmistakable—or is it just me?

My chest feels heavy. "Did you hack into my email?"

"No," he says, and a smile kisses his lips.

"How did you read the article then?"