Spencer Cohen Series, Book One (The Spencer Cohen Series 1) Read Online Free Page B

either wanted to pass out or leave. Probably both. “Andrew,” I started, putting my hand on his shoulder and urging him forward a little. “This is Daniela and her husband Emilio, they own the shop. And you’ve met Lola already, but this is her boyfriend Gabriel, or Gabe, as we call him. Guys, this is Andrew.”
    The four of them waved, said quiet hellos, and made awkward small talk. Andrew wiped his palms on his thighs, so before any of them could say anything to make him feel any more uncomfortable than he already was, and still with my hand on his back, I looked at Andrew and said, “You ready?”
    He nodded quickly. “Sure.”
    Turning to my friends, who were watching us and smiling, I said, “We’ll be off. Catch ya’s later. Wanna lock the door behind us?” I went to the front door, unlocked it, and held it open for Andrew.
    Just before the door closed behind me, I swear I heard Lola do that whisper-squeal thing she does when she’s excited. “Oh my God! Did you see Spencer’s face?” There was mumbling from the others and someone laughed, but thankfully the door clicked shut before I could hear any more. By some grace of God or good manners, Andrew didn’t seem to notice, either. I made a mental note to kill my so-called friends later.
    I pointed up the street toward the beach. “This way.”
    After half a block of silence and small talk about his drive to my place, he said, “Your friends seem nice.”
    I laughed. “They don’t normally behave like that. They’re really good people. Most people think tattoo artists are thugs, but that’s not the case. Emilio and Daniela are very loyal friends to me, and Lola… well, she’s crazy. But she’s my best friend. Sweet, fierce, and crazy.”
    “Not many people could pull off having pink hair, a black and white striped dress, and teal pumps,” he said.
    I was grinning now. “No, they couldn’t. She pretty much nails that 50s pin-up girl meets punk rocker look.”
    He smiled. “She does.”
    “There’s a little Moroccan tea house around the corner,” I told him, nodding up the street. “They do a great breakfast. Have you eaten?”
    “A few hours ago.”
    God, it was ten o’clock on a Sunday. “You’ve been up for hours already?”
    “Been to the gym too.”
    I shook my head at him. “Then you’ve worked up an appetite.”
    “I’ve never had Moroccan before. Certainly not for breakfast.”
    I held the door to the café open and found myself smiling at him. “Then today will be your first.”
    Inside the café was a mix of oranges, purples, and reds. It smelled of spice and lemon. The dark wooden tables were low and the bench seats covered with cushions, and I was thankful my favourite table was still empty. It was in the corner by the window where the sunlight filtered in.
    I took a seat and waited for Andrew to do the same. He sat across from me, looking around, smiling. “I love this place,” I told him. “And this table? If I could bring a book and have them serve me tea all day, I’d never leave. Especially in winter when the sun comes through the window.”
    He smiled, the eye-crinkling kind of smile, and I was, again, struck by how good looking he was. His sandy-blond hair was cut short and brushed to the side but still a bit spikey. He was clean-shaven and smelled really freakin’ good: like soap, deodorant, and man. He had that clean-cut all-American-guy thing down pat. I tried to imagine him wearing something more my style or anything different than the argyle sweater and dress pants, for that matter, but couldn’t. It suited him so perfectly. If there was a magazine called Sexy Nerds , he’d be on the cover.
    The owner, an older, motherly woman by the name of Zineb, came over and gave me a smile. “Spencer, not seen you in a while.”
    “I know! I’ve been busy this week,” I told her. “But my friend here has never had Moroccan. What do you think he should try?”
    “ Khobz b'chehma with lamb and peppers,”