“But drink water first.” I slid his water closer to him and said, “Palate cleanser.”
His eyes were a little squinty—I sensed a laugh in there—but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he did exactly what I said. He took a big drink from his water, slammed down the cup, then gave me ridiculous eye contact—like we were in a staring contest—as he first took a bite of his topping, then his crust.
“I’m right, right?” I asked, setting my chin on my wrist. “It’s way better.”
He sat back in his chair and watched me, without a word, his head tilted like he was trying to figure something out. He wasn’t smiling anymore, didn’t look teasing, but he didn’t look unhappy, either.
He looked… analytical.
I cleared my throat and felt warmth on my cheeks. “Whatever. I know I’m right, even if you’re too—”
“Amazing,” he said, his face still unreadable.
“Not the word I was looking for, but—”
“No,” he said, his mouth sliding into a smile. “Your pizza methodology. Is amazing.”
I blinked. Is he mocking me? “Are you saying that you agree with me?”
“I’m saying that I feel like I’ve never tasted pizza before. Thank you, Bailey Mitchell Glasses, for showing me your ways.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, and it was impossible not to give in to a huge smile of victory. I didn’t want him to know how much I enjoyed his compliment, so I said, “Now back to the devious plan.”
His eyes stayed on mine for another second before he gave a nod and grabbed his soda. “About that. Let me ask you something.”
“God.”
“Do you really think you’ll have the coconuts to do any of these things we’re planning? You’re kind of a pathetic people pleaser.”
“No, I’m not,” I shot back, sounding more defensive than I wanted to, but dammit—I felt a little attacked. Because what was it with that? Just because I was nice and preferred to avoid conflict didn’t mean I was pathetic. Nekesa called me that—pathetic people pleaser—all the time, and even Zack had eluded to it when we were together.
“Easy,” Charlie said, putting up his hands like he was being held up. “I didn’t mean it.”
I raised an eyebrow, my irritation instantly diffused by his overdramatic facial expression. “Really?”
“Okay, I probably meant it,” he said, his unapologetic smile making him look like a mischievous little boy. “But back to the question at hand. Are you brave enough to rock the boat?”
“I don’t know,” I said, giving the question honest consideration. I had a very hard time with confrontation, so he was right to question my abilities. “I mean, I want to.”
He made a noise and shook his head. “Not good enough, bruh.”
“I know,” I whined, stirring my drink with its straw and actually meaning it when I said, “I wish I was more like you.”
“I knew it.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, which was so wide, I wondered if he was a swimmer, and he said with teasing smugness, “I’m your role model.”
“Hardly.”
“If you want to call me Uncle Charlie, or Mentor Charlie,” he said, smiling in a funny way that made me want to smile back, “you totally can.”
“I’d rather eat glass,” I said, pulling off the sharp retort even as I wanted to laugh. “Can we get back to the business at hand?”
“Sure,” he said, his eyes moving all over my face before focusing on my gaze. “Well, in my opinion, the first thing you need to do is dig deep and find your inner asshole.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Strike the language,” he said quickly. “But you know what I mean. Just be a dick.”
“No one’s as good at that as you.” I looked at him, at his naturally sarcastic face, and said, “Oh my God—come with me.”
“What?” His dark eyebrows knotted together.
“Yes!” It was brilliant. “I’ll be braver with you there—”
“More brave,” he interrupted. His brow was still furrowed, but the playful glint was in his eyes.
“And you can bring your surly attitude too.” I didn’t want us to be mean to Scott, but I felt desperate to do something—anything—to slow things down. I was terrified that my life was about to change yet again, and I couldn’t let that happen when I was still adjusting to the first change. I just needed more time before my mom got serious—with anyone. “We’ll be the dynamic duo of assholery.”
“Lame superhero names,” he muttered, watching me closely like he was thinking a million things.
“I’ll let you be the bigger, badder one,” I teased, tucking my hair behind my ears, dying to know what was going on in his head.
“Oh, you’ll let me.” He rolled his eyes. “What’s in it for me?”
Now I rolled my eyes. “You really are a dick. How about you’re just being a nice friend?”
“Coworker,” he corrected, and I heard the vibration of his phone as he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the notification.
“That’s right—coworker,” I said, feeling a little weird about his correction. I didn’t care about being Charlie Sampson’s friend, but it felt like a tiny rejection every time he made it clear he’d never be my friend. “God forbid you admit you were wrong about the friendship thing.”
“Right?” His jaw clenched as he looked at his phone, and then he turned off the screen and dropped it onto the table. Not angrily, but like he was done with it. His gaze came back to mine, and even though he gave me his smart-ass smirk, it didn’t reach his eyes when he said, “I’d rather die than be wrong.”
“I’d die to prove you wrong,” I teased, “so we’re kind of similar on this front.”
“Only not.”
I reached across the table, grabbed his sleeve, and gave his arm a shake, desperate to convince him and also bizarrely compelled to shake that detached expression off his face. “Please do this. Please. Please. Do it. Do it.”
That made his mouth curve into a slow, wide smile as he set one very big hand on mine, trapping it against his biceps. “You’re begging—I like this.”
“So you’ll do it?” I asked, a little taken aback by the power of his grin. Or maybe it’s the power of the grin/muscular-arm-under-my-palm combo.
“I’ll follow you to your house and stay just long enough to stir the pot.” He exhaled dramatically, shook off my hand, and said, “I’ll let you watch the master, and hopefully you’ll pick up a few things.”
“Are you finished?” I asked, staring pointedly at his empty plate. “I want to get rolling on Operation Ditching Scott.”
“So impatient,” he said, reaching out a hand and messing up my hair. “My bright-eyed student.”
“My dumbass instructor,” I said, smacking his hand before fixing my hair. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Charlie