Until I leave for Europe in five days.
Going back to where rugby’s more common. Where selling out stadiums means a paycheck orders of magnitude bigger than what we get here. Where we can’t go out in public without getting recognized.
Unlike here, where I’ve quit correcting Brydie every time she tells someone I play lacrosse, because here, if it’s not football or hockey or baseball or basketball, it doesn’t count.
“Pop the trunk,” I tell Ziggy.
I don’t like her.
Liar, Caden’s voice whispers.
Fine.
I don’twantto like her.
She’s new. I don’t know where she came from or what her qualifications are. It’s not normal to gnaw on a whole chicken inside a car. And said gnawing doesn’t match thesuper fancythat I was told to look for.
Though sheispretty.
Gorgeous, actually. Round cheeks that have a glow. Those bright blue eyes. Soft pink lips. Brown hair just the right kind of messy to give a guy ideas about gripping it while?—
Fuck it.
Maybe she’s up for fun before she leaves.
Why not? I haven’t thought another woman was pretty in months, and who can be attractive while devouring a full bird the way she was?
Plus, while work and fun don’t mix, I’m quitting.
This is my last shift before I leave.
The attraction I’m feeling here is eitherit’s been too longcatching up with me, or there’s something innately appealing about her.
Brydie strides down the three short stairs to join us and hands Ziggy the towel tucked into her apron like it’s normalfor a new somm to show up with chicken grease all over herself.
“Ziggy ran all over the city today buying replacement wine for tonight,” Brydie tells me. “Saved the day. Oh, honey, you missed a spot. Here.”
She takes the towel that Ziggy’s using to smear chicken grease worse over the driver’s side window and rubs Ziggy’s nose instead.
Ziggy shoots a wary glance at me.
“The trunk?” I repeat.
“Don’t mind him,” Brydie says to her. “He doesn’t like the heat.”
“Who does?” Ziggy finally pushes out of the car as I head to the back of the vehicle. “Holy hell, who turned on the ovens in the parking lot?”
“Global warming,” Brydie says. “Was it not this hot in Europe?”
My head jerks back to look at Ziggy.
Europe? She was in Europe recently?
She grins, but it’s more guarded than it was before. “Just because I eat my rotisserie chicken like a rabid toddler doesn’t mean I haven’t seen other parts of the world, Mr. Security Man. Who’s ready to carry wine?”
She pops the trunk.
“Vacation?” I ask her.
