“Bergman,” I snap.
“Hmm?” He glances my way. “Oh. I was whistling, wasn’t I? Sorry about that.”
I glare at him.
“Pit stop time!” he says brightly, making me wince.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Nope,” he says, turning into a coffee shop drive-through. “Just Oliver Bergman, reporting for caffeinated-beverage duty.”
“God, strike me down.”
“Good morning, Ms. Bhavna!” he says cheerily to the woman at the drive-through window. “You look radiant today. Still getting good sleep?”
The woman beams at him, warm brown skin, wide smile, black hair threaded with silver spun into a bun on her head. “Aren’t you sweet, Oliver. I am. Ever since I tried that white noise machine you recommended, my wife’s snores haven’t bothered me a bit!”
I wish I could say that was the end of the torture. But it’s not. Oliver places seventeen—seventeen—highly specific beverage orders, then, as we wait, proceeds to make incessant small talk with the cashier, Ivan—with whom Oliver is, of course, on a first-name basis—not limited to their forthcoming vacation plans, how their dog’s responding to its antibiotics, and whether or not they’ve tried the new Chinese place down the road.
I’m about to throw open my door and limp my way to work when Oliver finally rolls up the window and sets an elaborate multi-tiered beverage carrier system in my lap.
“Whew,” he says. “Thank goodness you’re here today! You should see me try to drive while keeping those puppies safe. I buckle them in, but let me tell you, the stops and starts of Los Angeles morning traffic are not conducive to spill-free passage.”
I glare at him as he finally pulls out. “Remind me never to get in a car with you ever again.”
“Aw, this isn’t that bad, is it?”
“Says the man steering a car rather than holding a beverage carrier containing seventeen coffee drinks, the bottom tier containing a disturbing medley of both hot and cold liquids that I can assure you are not a pleasant experience for my groin.”
“You love Icy Hot though,” Oliver says, throwing me a smile. “Or no, it’s that natural stuff—Tiger Balm, right?”
“How very observant.” I lift the carrier slightly to give my dick relief from the highly unpleasant sensation of being part frozen, part steamed. “However, never in a million years would I put Tiger Balm or Icy Hot on my cock.”
Oliver turns bright red as the word rings in the car, his gaze resolutely trained on traffic. That’s shut him up. And for some inexplicable reason, my gaze remains fixed on him, watching with fascination as a blush creeps up his throat and stains his cheeks. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, and my dick twitches.
Shit.
I glance away, out the window.
Looking at him was a bad idea. Looking at him while he blushed and bit his lip was the height of self-sabotage.
Because on the most ordinary of days, let alone when he’s blushing and sinking his teeth into that bottom lip, Oliver’s the kind of beautiful that’s undeniable—a face for sculpture. High cheekbones, strong jaw, the smallest cleft in his chin. Fair, sun-kissed skin. Hair the color of wheat at sunset, pale blue-gray eyes, cool and striking as moonlit ice.
Fuck, I’ve got to stop reading poetry. Just listen to me.
As traffic slows to a stop, Oliver glances my way. And for a moment something…snags. Like catching my toe on the curb. Hitting a pothole while in the car.
I glance away and rub my temples, which pound mercilessly.
After a light throat clear, Oliver says, “Heads up, seven up.”
Before I can make a biting remark about juvenile phrases, his arm brushes my thigh as he reaches across my lap, around the beverage carriers, and opens the glove compartment.
“Aspirin, naproxen, ibuprofen, acetaminophen,” he says, pointing to a slim black pouch with a red cross symbol on it. “Help yourself.”
“What?”
Traffic resumes. He pulls his arm back, once again brushing my thigh to navigate around the beverage carriers. “You said you’ve got a headache, and I’m assuming it’s pretty bad since you’re staring at the sun like it’s the devil itself. Oh, and this one here,” he says, eyes on the road, yet tapping a short cup in the top tray with GG written on the side. “Wash down your pain relief of choice with that. Aspirin and acetaminophen chased with caffeine will get that headache under control lickety-split.”
I swallow, desperately trying to ignore the heat blazing up my thigh after such faint contact. Clearing my throat, I unearth the cup he pointed to. “GG,” I read. “What’s that stand for? Ginger green tea? I hate that shit.”
“Nope,” he says.
“What is it, then?”
“A very fancy breve,” he says after a beat, staring resolutely at the road.
I blink at him. “How the hell do you know I prefer breves?”
“Hayes, everyone on God’s green earth knows you drink a breve. Any time we’re in public, you order one.”
“What’s the GG stand for, then?” I ask.
Oliver flashes me one of those aggravating, dazzling smiles. “That’s between God, me, and Bhavna at Deja Brew.”
After holding seventeen specialty coffee drinks reeking of a stomach-twisting medley of flavored syrups including, but not limited to, hazelnut, strawberry, mint, and pumpkin, while Oliver hummed under his breath the rest of our drive, I’m on the verge of losing my ever-loving shit.
“Buenos días, Julio!” Oliver belts like we’re on fucking Broadway instead of in the lobby where we enter the sports complex.
Julio, who’s head of security—middle-aged, built like a house—smiles, a wide grin lighting up his face. “Qué tal, Oliver?” His brow furrows as Oliver extracts a to-go cup from the beverage tower he’s holding and hands it his way. “Oh, man, is that what I think it is?”
“Your Mocha Mexicana, and this time I triple-checked they didn’t forget the cayenne,” Oliver says, beaming as Julio pops off the lid and breathes in the aroma of his drink.
“Gracias, Oliver. This is just what I needed.”
“De nada. I’m glad,” Oliver says. “Have a great day, Julio! And you let me know how Paulina’s surgery goes next week, all right? I’ll be thinking about her.”
“Will do, man. Will do.”
Oliver turns back to me and hands me a beverage carrier. Then another. “Be helpful if you’re just gonna stand there looking grumpy.”
“I—”
“Hasta luego, Julio!” Oliver calls.
Gritting my teeth, I turn and give Julio a polite nod.
Julio lifts his coffee in greeting and smiles faintly, nothing like the wide, warm grin he had for Oliver. “Have a nice day, Mr. Hayes.”
“Gavin,” leaves me before I can stop it.
What the hell’s wrong with me? Someone’s hijacked my brain and mouth this morning. That’s the only explanation for why I willingly got into a car with Oliver Bergman, held his damn specialty coffee drinks, and am now making sure I’m on a first-name basis with Julio in security.
Maybe I concussed myself last night at the bar. Wouldn’t be my first head injury, and the doctors warned me I can’t afford too many more before they start worrying about long-term neurological impact.