Sugar

6

chapter six
florence thompson
song: stay young - maisie peters

    When I was thirteen I was told by my moms fancy therapist that I had what is called anxiety. Now, looking back, my dog probably could've told me this information if he could speak English.

    Back then though, I was confused about the feeling that consumed my being any time I was put into a situation I deemed stressful. None of my friends talked about it and so I figured I was just different, and not in a good way.

    When I found out that feeling had a name, it was nice to finally know what it was and that it was actually relatively normal.

    But as I move towards the table that McDouble Douche and Vincent De Freaking Bellis are sat at, I'm not convinced that this feeling is anywhere near relatively normal.

    My heart was thudding rapidly against my rib cage, my palms sweating as they desperately gripped the small pink notebook.

    I have so many questions. Like how the hell do they know each other? Did Vincent tell him about me? Do they even know that they both know me? Are they friends? Is Elvis Presley still alive and faking his own death?

    "Florence!" Brandon's voice tore me out of my thoughts as I finally came to the end of their booth, notepad in hand and heart carefully lodged in my throat. "I didn't know you worked here."

    I nodded stiffly, a tight smile on my lips, very aware of Vincent's gaze on my reddening face but I definitely did not have the lady balls to look at him yet.

    That was precisely the moment when I realized that Vincent knew me as Mary Thompson.

    More panic ensues.

    "Yup, I do," I chuckled dryly. "What can I get you gentlemen today?" I cleared my throat, keeping my gaze steady on the blank paper in my hand.

     Don't look at him. Don't look at him.

     "I'll take..." Brandon's words trailed off as he clucked his tongue in thought.

     "I hear the donuts here are amazing," Vincent's voice nearly made me choke on air. It was deep and velvety, sending shivers down my spine. He had that voice that he could probably read the Webster dictionary and I'd be fanning myself.

     Don't look.

    Don't look.

    Don't look!

    I looked.

     Finally cracking, my gaze flitted nervously to Vincent. His dark brown, nearly black hair was gelled back neatly, stubble casted across the lower part of his face, sharpening is features even more.

     His mismatched eyes were even more intoxicating in person, especially as they slid over my features and drank me in so slowly.

     "Just sweet enough, but not too sweet," his voice slid from his parted lips which I was too busy staring at to realize right away what he'd said.

     When I did recollect what he said, my face flushed further when I realized there was a definite double meaning to his words but I couldn't quite pin down what exactly it was.

    I mean, not to be a donut shamer or anything, but he didn't exactly look like the type of dude to consume so many carbs.

    But who am I to profile someone for eating donuts.