More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(19)

And let’s be real, they sort of were. They’re a stunning couple, him so tall and dark and her so slight and fair and freaking beautiful. I hate her. She’s wearing a gorgeous black dress that makes her boobs look amazing and she has a sparkling tiara on her head.

Lauren is the perfect queen to Tuttle’s handsome king.

“Hey.” Someone taps on the scale in front of me and I startle, turning to find a guy waiting for me to weigh his frozen yogurt. It’s piled high in the cup and covered with every topping imaginable. So gross. “You giving it away for free tonight, or what?”

The guy starts laughing and so do his friends. I glare at him as I ring him up, trying my best not to pay attention to Tuttle.

But it’s so hard. I watch as he walks down the row of machines beside Lauren—at least she’s not hanging on him anymore—a patient look on his face as she whines about calories and how we don’t have her favorite flavor and what sort of toppings should she dump on her frozen yogurt because oh my God—and I quote—she loves them all.

He never says a word. Just nods in all the right places and occasionally looks my way. I occasionally look his way too, so our eyes meet far too much. And I sort of hate myself for it. I shouldn’t look at him. I should forget all about him and focus on my job. On my life.

He’s a distraction I don’t need.

“Aren’t you having any frozen yogurt, Jordan?” Lauren asks sweetly, her voice carrying through the shop despite the noise level. Her voice also makes me feel stabby.

Oh, and it’s like a knife to the heart, how casually she calls him Jordan. I swear I see irritation flash in his blue eyes, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he wants her to call him Jordan because she’s earned the right and I lost it. They’ve become close. Homecoming king and queen close—maybe even kissing close.

Maybe she’s the only one who gets to call him Jordan now.

The realization makes me sick to my stomach.

“I don’t want any,” he starts, but Lauren practically leaps on him, she’s such a rabid Yo Town fan.

“Oh, but you really, really should. It’s so delicious and besides, you need to celebrate your team’s win tonight. And your own win. Our win,” she tells him with a dazzling smile. “Come on. Pick something out.”

He glances at me and without missing a beat he asks, “What flavor do you recommend?”

My mouth drops open. Is he seriously drawing me into their conversation right now? What the hell? “Um…what flavors do you usually like?”

Tuttle shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders, his gaze never wavering from mine. It’s like everything else in the room fades away, and it’s just me and him. “I like lots of flavors.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, my brain scrambling for a better answer. “Such as?”

“I like fruit flavors, like peachy skin and cherry lips. Oh, and dark chocolate eyes.” His gaze slowly sweeps over me and I’ve never felt so self-conscious in my life. I look like hell in my battered jeans and Yo Town T-shirt smeared with frozen yogurt and melted candy, my hair a haphazard mess despite being in a bun. All while he looks like a god. Figures. “I also like pretty girls who bust my balls and make me feel like a jackass every time I so much as look at them.”

My cheeks are on fire because he is so talking about me. He’s with Lauren-the-most-popular-girl-in-high-school-Mancini yet he’s flirting with me.

“Sounds like you need to leave those types alone,” I say, my voice firm. Lauren is watching us, her head swiveling from Tuttle to me and back to Tuttle again. Like we’re playing some sort of game, volleying the ball back and forth to each other.

But someone calls her name, one of her friends, one of the princesses of the homecoming court, and Lauren darts off to see what she wants.

So it’s just me and Tuttle.

“Maybe I don’t want to leave her alone.” He stops directly in front of me with only the counter separating us, and presses his hands against the counter. “Maybe I just need to work a little harder to get her to believe we’re meant to be together,” he murmurs in that low, rumbly voice that makes my stomach twist and turn.

Meant to be together. He shouldn’t say such romantic, swoony things. He doesn’t believe that, and neither do I. I’m not sure why he continues to bother with it.

“Stop,” I whisper, flicking my head in Lauren’s direction. I rest my palms against the counter and lean over it a little, my face practically in Tuttle’s. “Go be with your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he whispers back, his hands coming dangerously close to mine.

“She’s your queen.” I snatch my hands away from the counter and point at his crown. “Congrats on winning.”

His face betrays nothing and he doesn’t bother acknowledging my statement. “When did you start working here?”

I lift my chin, trying for determined and cool and collected. Most likely failing miserably. “A few days ago.”

“You like it?”

I shrug. “It’s a job. I need the money.”

Tuttle studies me closely, like he can see right through me, and I want to take my words back. Somehow, he knows I’m lying. Well, I’m not really lying, but I am sad I wasn’t able to go to the game tonight. I love football. I love watching our boys play, and they’ve gotten so much better this year. They have a real chance to make it to the playoffs, and that’s incredible.