You and Everything After (Falling #2)(97)

And I hate the person I am when I’m around her.

“Seventeen!” My number is called. Great…it’s the same guy working the deli counter today. He was the one who took my order for the party last week. Carson was with me. He was drunk…and an *. This guy, he knew—and he judged me for it. Or at least, it felt like he did.

“I’m seventeen,” I say, stepping up to the glass case and handing over my number.

“I don’t really need the number,” he smirks. Maybe he doesn’t remember me. “Adding to your order?”

Shit. He remembers me.

“Yeah. Party just got a little bigger,” I say, smiling. I can’t help but smile at him—he has one of those faces. It’s like a forced reflection, and I want to mimic whatever he does.

“Okay, hang on. I’ll get the file from the back,” he says, patting the counter once and winking.

Houston.

I noticed his nametag the last time, too. I like the name. That’s why I noticed. Not because he’s tall, broad shouldered with dark hair that flops over the top of his visor and green eyes that practically glow under the shadow.

I like the name. That’s it.

“Okay, let’s see…Paige. Right…I’ve got you right here,” he says, pulling the pen from behind his ear and clicking it to take more notes. “What are you adding?”

“You better not have ordered yet!” Carson’s voice bellows from behind me. “Did she order yet? Get mine in on this ticket. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“I haven’t ordered for lunch yet. This was just the party order, relax,” I say, turning to face him, dreading turning back around to face Houston, the guy with the cute name. I turn anyway because I have no choice, and that same look is on his face again—the judgmental one.

“Order that crap second. I’ve got practice, so I only have a few minutes. Hey, yeah…so, get me one of those burrito things,” Carson says, leaning over the counter and pointing down as if Houston wouldn’t know what he was talking about. When he leans back on his heels, he lays his heavy arm over my shoulder and pulls me into him tightly.

“I guess I’ll have one of those too,” I say, my eyes on Houston’s nametag instead of his eyes. I don’t want to see the look in his eyes.

“We only have one left,” he says. Of course they do.

“Oh,” I say, sucking in my top lip and looking into the case of food for an alternative. I’m not hungry anymore. “I’ll just take a sandwich then. Tuna.”

“Right…okay,” he says, reaching to the side for a bag. He pauses, though, before picking out one of the pre-made sandwiches for me. “Or…maybe this guy could pick something else and let you have the burrito.”

“Fuck that, bro! I ordered first. Give me the burrito. She’s fine with a sandwich,” Carson bellows. His phone rings, so he steps to the side and answers the call. “Yo, what up, man?”

I can still hear his entire conversation even though he’s twenty feet away. Everyone can hear him.

Houston is standing still, his arms propped on top of the counter and his brow bunched while he stares at my boyfriend. Carson is pacing and talking so loudly that he’s starting to interrupt others eating lunch at the small tables in the corner of the market.

I used to like his big personality. His confidence and swagger was what turned me on when we first met at the Sigma-Delta mixer. He’s a starter on the McConnell team, a fullback. He’s a year older than I am, and I liked that too.

Houston is moving again, wrapping the burrito and dropping it in a plastic bag. He lets the burrito hit the counter with a thud, and he watches Carson pace the entire time. When he sees his burrito is ready, he reaches across my body and grabs the bag, holding his phone to his chest and kissing me with nothing but forceful indifference. “I gotta run. You got this?” he asks…sort of.

I nod, only because he’s already gone before I could answer.

“That guy’s your boyfriend?” Houston asks, finally packing up my sandwich. Normally, I’d respond with something snarky, something strong that would put him and that damned disapproving look on his face in its place. I can’t seem to find that fire today, though.

“I still need to make the party orders,” I say, instead opting to ignore his question completely.

“Right,” he says, his lips pushed into a tight, flat line.

I add two more trays of shrimp and up the order of meat and cheese, and Houston notes it all on the order sheet. I wait at the register while he walks to the back office and tucks my order file away again. When he comes back, he slides a bottle of tea toward me—the same sweet tea I ordered and drank the last time I came.

He remembered. It makes me smile.

Propping my purse up on the counter, I pull out my wallet and start to unsnap the clasp so I can pay for my lunch, but Houston stops me. The warmth of his hand is surprising against mine. I don’t jerk or flinch; I only freeze. It takes me a second or two to look up at him, to register that he’s stopping me from paying for my lunch. I don’t like that. I don’t like being beholden to someone. Favors—they’re like making a trade sometimes.

“It’s on me,” he says, and I refuse quickly, shaking my head no. His hand squeezes mine tighter. “I won’t take your money. Not for your lunch…or his. It’s on me.”