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The tinkling of the bell over the shop’s door has you lifting your head from the book you were flipping through. Marking the page, you set it aside and put on your best cheery smile, leaning on the counter.
“Good afternoon, is there anything I can…help you with?” You falter when your eyes land on the man in question, who is dressed far differently than you’re used to. Most guys around town don’t exactly wear red leather, or so much of it. Shaking your head, you focus in on said customer, hoping he didn’t notice your moment of confusion.
Clearly not, as his eyes are otherwise engaged in raking up and down your body, which – normally – would make you uncomfortable, but in this case just makes you sigh. He leans against the counter also, smiling at you with a glint of something mischievous in his eyes. Rolling your own, you push yourself away from the counter and the rather attractive man, who doesn’t stop smirking.
“Actually; yes, you can. See, I’m looking for something sweet, and I think I might have just found it, because damn, is my sweet tooth aching.” He winks, making you sigh audibly. Of course he’s got to be one of those guys.
Shaking your head, you reach for your book, thinking better of it at the last second. No need to have some random stranger taking it and trying to get you to go out with him to get it back. You’ve been down that road far more times than you’d like. With a fake smile plastered on your face, you tap the counter to get his attention.
“Very smooth, but I’m not that sweet of a person. Prefer the sour stuff myself. Now, what is it you’re actually looking for?” Your eyes are drawn to his jaw, which ticks minutely at the comment, as if he didn’t expect someone to turn him down.
With a sigh, he tells you vaguely what he’s searching for, and you nod. Moving around the counter, you start down one of the aisles, the stranger close behind. “Did you sit on sugar, because damn, your ass is sweet.”
“Try a little harder fly boy, I don’t fall for 80s pick-up lines,” you call over your shoulder, fingers drumming over the shelves as you try to find what he came into the shop for.
Of course, once you find the item, he says he needs something else. For a solid three hours, you’re walking around the shop, with this stranger. He calls himself Star-Lord, but when you laughed, he grumbled that it’s Peter, trailing behind you like a lost puppy and throwing flirtatious comments out every chance he gets.
“Alright, final one, and if this doesn’t work, then I’ll shut up.”
“Oh please, don’t let that stop you.”
He puckers his lips in a sort of pout, and you bite down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from laughing at his sour expression. Reaching for the item he needs, you jerk back when he steps closer, breath on your skin.
“Do you have any Band-Aids? Because I think I hurt myself falling for you.”
That does it. You guffaw, bending at the waist and letting out a laugh that has Peter’s eyebrows raising. Within seconds, your laughter has become so hard and loud, he’s actually blushing, which you won’t deny is adorable. You reach out to grab a shelf, but just end up waving your hand about, gasping for air between laughs. Finally, you suck in a deep breath and straighten up.
“Oh dear god, I haven’t laughed like that in years. Thank you…so much for that Peter. I think I might have started a six pack there,” you giggle, wiping your streaming eyes.
Peter is pouting now, surly about the fact that his pick-up lines didn’t get the outcome he wanted. Patting his shoulder, you smile kindly up at him, fluttering your lashes and stepping closer. He stepped back slightly, surprised at your movements. He seems to be trying to discern your motives when you speak.
“Did it hurt?”
His eyebrows raise, but he smiles coyly, playing along. “Did what hurt?”
“When you clawed your way up from hell.” You can’t stop the snicker that starts in the middle of your sentence, the punch line a lot less powerful as you start laughing again. Peter scowls, and you grip his shoulders, shaking your head and trying to get him to relax.
Collecting yourself, you start back towards the register. “Hey Peter!”
He grumbles, following behind you, but mutters a ‘what?’ to which you smirk.
“Is that a mirror in your pocket? Because I can see myself in your pants.”
When you turn to look at him, he’s smiling like a fool, and you lean against the counter. Once everything is set down and rung up, you take the money from him and return his change. Snagging his hand before he can leave, you pop the cap off a pen and scribble an address down on his palm.
“Meet me there, tonight at eight. I’ll be the one wearing this.” You wave at yourself at that, and Peter grins back at you.
“Sounds great. I’ll see you there.”
The tinkling of the bell over the door has your head turning to watch Peter walk out. As soon as he thinks he’s safe, he starts doing a little happy dance, and you laugh to yourself. Man, he was one weird hero.