For the first time ever, she started encouraging her patrons to get out as gently as she could. If only she could just turn off the Saturday party playlist and hide underneath her desk with a bottle of wine and some Bon Jovi.
It took less time than she expected to clear her guests. She didn’t realize she was looking for Patrick until she was alone, and he had not reappeared.
Shit. Just shit. Damn Mikhail and his shitty ass timing.
She finger-combed her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck but didn’t tie it. Bon Jovi and cleaning. Perfect combination.
She had just grabbed the recycling bags when the bell over the door chimed.
“Sorry we’re—”
But it was Patrick. Patrick, his features encased in stone and shoulders stiff.
Her mouth went dry. That shirt did him alotof favors. “What are you doing here?” she managed. “I thought you’d gone home.”
“I promised I’d help. I like to keep my promises.” He brushed abruptly past her and fetched a pair of cleaning gloves and an extra trash bag from the storage box.
Ouch. “Well, thanks.” Fine. She did not need him. The tears threatening at the backs of her eyes were from exhaustion.
She worked alongside him in tense silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the ’80s rock ballads. She stole glances at him as he worked, as he meticulously sorted the trash and recycling, emptied half-full glasses into a bucket.
What have I done?
Before long they had finished with the general clearing. “I’ll take this out.” He heaved four whole trash bags over his broad muscular shoulders.
“Thanks.”
Not how she pictured the evening. What had she pictured exactly? Not this. Not this angry hate cleaning.
He reentered the studio and went directly for the broom.
If she screamed it was not her fault. “Did you have fun tonight?” Was that her voice? It sounded strained, like a cheerleader about to find out her boyfriend was dumping her. Anita’s blood roiled.
“Sure.” He finished sweeping the dance floor and leaned the broom against the mirror. “I forgot how much work it is.”
“Yeah.” Anita snapped the gloves from her hands. He would know if he had just taken the time to be there over the past year, if he hadn’t left her alone with Mikhail. “I need to wash my hands.”
“Good idea.”
This was not okay. She had never angered anyone merely by the act of washing her hands, but Patrick glowered, literally glowered.
She had never seen anything she hated more.
“What’s going on?” She despised the desperation in her voice and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I don’t know.” He leaned against the door to the washroom, watching her. Infuriating.
“You’re acting like you’re mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad at you,Anita?” He shoved past her and moved across the dance floor.
Her heart dropped at every step of distance. “Did I do something?”
He whirled, running his hands through his thick mop of hair. “I don’t know!” He stood there, hands at his sides, pleading. His voice softened a little, but his face looked wracked. Damaged. She nearly swooned. “Look, just tell me. Tell me you and Mikhail are getting back together and my services are no longer needed.”
“What?” She stifled a laugh that was more of a sob. “Are you insane? I’m not getting back together with Mikhail.”
“Well, what was I supposed to think when your ex shows up in the middle of the party? You’re always saying how good he was for you.”
