My cheeks burn and I look away immediately, before he can call me out any further. This would be so much easier if his features weren’t as striking as they are. “It’s nothing.”

Emmitt hums, a sound that implies far too much, and I curl my fingers into my palms to keep from making a sharp-tongued response.

He’s about to drop into the seat beside me when he falters, sniffing the air. “What is that?”

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His nose is wrinkled, his eyes scanning the row in front of us, as if it’ll give him the answer he’s looking for. “The smell of cinnamon?” I ask.

Emmitt’s gaze immediately darts to me. “Yes. You smell it, too?”

I snort and tilt my head in the opposite direction. “Auntie Anne’s. They sell pretzels.”

Emmitt follows my line of vision, and his eyes light up at the sight of the small counter tucked away in the terminal. “It smells really good.”

“Go knock yourself out, then, pretty boy,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “We have another twenty-five minutes before the ferry pulls in.”

Without another word, Emmitt walks off in the direction of Auntie Anne’s. I lean back in my seat and stare at the clock positioned on the wall, willing the minutes to go by faster.

It’s because I’m staring at the time that I realize five minutes have passed and Emmitt still hasn’t come back.

I glance at Auntie Anne’s and see Emmitt leaned over the counter, a crooked grin on his face. The girl behind the register is blushing bright red and fumbling with change. My eyebrows rise of their own accord. It seems Emmitt Ramos lives up to his flirtatious reputation.

For no discernable reason, something uncomfortable tugs at my chest, but I quickly shove it down. Whatever. As long as he comes back in time for the ferry.

When Emmitt finally comes back with a cup of pretzel sticks, I note the phone number written across the lid and shake my head slightly. He doesn’t seem to notice, picking out one of the cinnamon sticks with an expression of glee.

“Happy?” I ask, but it comes out less snarky than I hoped for.

Emmitt smirks, taking the seat beside me. “Elated, love.”

I roll my eyes and turn my attention to my phone, scrolling through Twitter, but the scent of cinnamon is even stronger now. I lick my lips, keeping my gaze on my screen.

My view is obstructed when Emmitt holds the cup out in front of me. “Want one?” he asks.

“No,” I say, but at the most inopportune moment of all time, my stomach rumbles, giving me away.

Emmitt chuckles darkly. “Are you sure?”

I turn to him, my glare harsh. “Yes, I’m—”

Before I can finish my sentence, he shoves a cinnamon stick inside my mouth, and I falter incredulously.