“Whatisthis?” I demanded, squinting at him. “Some kind of charity thing? Some way to get me to owe you a favor? Because I don’t need—”
“No! Jesus, you’re suspicious. Listen, I can’t handle the Crabapple job with my current staffanyway. You’d be doingmethe favor.”
“And having Ross keep the Crabapple as a client would be my compensation,” I said slowly. “For the favor.”
He nodded. “Plus, I’ll pay you my standard part-time wage.”
I bit my lip, thinking of all the many, many reasons I should say no.
There was a catch to this; there had to be. Micah Bloom had never struck me as a man who did nice things for free, and sure ashellnot someone who’d do nice things forme.
But God, I needed the money. There was no way I’d be able to replace Bessie otherwise, and I had no idea how I was going to doeitherof my jobs without a car.
“How many hours?”
Micah smiled, recognizing this for the capitulation it was. “Maybe ten or fifteen a week.”
“We’d need to keep this quiet. As in,silent.” I could glare too, and I demonstrated it now. “If my mother hears about this, the nuclear fallout would devastate the entire Northeast.” Not that I’d care; I’d already be burned to cinders.
“Fine,” he agreed. He finished his drink and set the glass down on the bar. “I have a delivery at four o’clock on Monday. That’s fourin the morning,” he added.
I rolled my eyes. “I figured.”
“Great. Then meet me at the shop at three forty-five and we’ll get started. And you’d better not tell me you were too drunk to remember this conversation, no matter how many oftheseyou’ve been sucking back.” He held my gaze as he leaned way too far into my personal space, picked up mydrink, and took a sip.
Which wasrudeand not at all cute. Especially when he screwed up his face the second the beverage hit his tongue and shivered head-to-toe like he’d been hit with poison.
“Jesus. What the hell is this? I hate to break it to you, Ross, but Jordan cut you off. There's no alcohol in there at all. It tastes like…”
“Cherries?” I gave him a pitying look. “It's a Shirley Temple,Bloom.”
“A Shirley Temple?”
“It’s ginger ale,” I explained. “With cherry syrup and—”
“I know what itis. I don’t know why you have one.”
“Uh, ‘cause it’s the designated-driver specialty of the house and ‘cause cherries are delicious?”
Once again, Micah wore that intense, confused, nearly angry look that was pretty much his default way of looking at me, and I didn’tgetit. How did I make him so angry all the damn time?
“What?” I demanded, throwing my hands in the air. “I don’t drink alcohol when I have to drive. Ever. You can call that childish if you want, but I’ve worked for the police department too long and seen too many cars wrapped around trees on the Camden Road to take a ch—”
Micah’s hand came around the back of my neck and pulled me forward until his lips were on mine.Hard. Unyieldingly hard.
But Jesus, so fucking hot.
He kissed me the way he’d touched me, the way he’d looked at me, demanding and pissed off and searching for something I wasn’t sure how to provide, or if I even wanted to.
My hands flailed for a second as I was thrown off balance—literally and figuratively—but Micah’s other hand came up to grab my jaw and steady me. My lips parted for him in a way that wasn’t voluntary or involuntary, but simplynecessaryand unavoidable, like breathing.
The force of the kiss blew across my brain, sending all my thoughts and beliefs and preconceptions skittering like last year’s leaves, and I grabbed at his bicep for support becauseholy shitall of a sudden Iwasintoxicated.
“You taste like cherries,” he whispered as he pulled back.
I stared at him, a little breathless and a lot wary. “What…” I cleared my throat and tried again, trying desperately to be cool about this. “What was that?”
“That was a kiss, Constantine.” Micah sounded bored again. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes were already scanning the room, like he couldn’t wait to get away. “A one-time thing, just to seal the deal. Guess I’m your flavor of the week after all, huh?” He licked his lips slowly. “Guess you’re mine, too.”
