We sold out.
We sold out, and not just because the kids in the college’s summer program flooded the parking lot and Simon’s boys alone ordered six burgers and finished off my fish.
AndI have two new parties booked before the end of July.
Simon, of course, disappeared as soon as the last order was placed, leaving me to clean up on my own.
Probably just as well.
Between the way he brought customers in and then worked some kind of crazy magic that had over half of them asking for my newsletter and socials links so they could track where I was every day, I was in danger of jumping his bones if he hadn’t taken off so quickly.
Everything’s cleaned and put away, and I’m doing one final inventory check when he climbs into the back of the bus and pulls the door shut behind him.
Still shirtless.
Which is just—holy hell.
He told at least six customers that push-ups and jogging are all he does for exercise, but my god.
The man’s abs are tight, with the subtlest of man-V’s disappearing into his waistband. His pecs are delicious. And his shoulders—his shoulders are the reason shoulders exist.
Broad, with tight balls of muscle at the tops of his arms, holding up biceps of steel.
He’s not bulky—more lean muscle—but he could’ve been successful as a model even if his face wasn’t handsome as hell.
And don’t get me started on his ass.
The twin dimples on either side of the groove of his spine right above his waistline.
The curve of his butt.
The way I’ve stolen glances at him all day long.
Simon Luckwood has been hiding the body of a god under his shirts.
He beams at me as he steps around the chef’s table and approaches me. “Your competitors would like to invite you to their next barbecue and have requested that I inform you that you’re to bring your own bean bags for cornhole, which is a request that I assume you understand better than I do.”
Is he serious? “You—younetworkedfor me?”
“I didn’t want them to resent you for us selling out first, so I made sure to draw customers to the other vendors as well. Far better to be friendly competition than cutthroat enemies, no?”
I’m sweaty and smell like the worst part of a dirty gym bag. I got a burn on my hand from misbehaving fry grease. My feet ache because I need new shoes, just like Hudson, and also just like Hudson, I haven’t prioritized them yet.
And I’m throwing myself at Simon and kissing him like he’s just rescued me from a desert island.
Because in a way, I think he has.
He catches me without stumbling, wrapping his bare arms around me and slanting his mouth against mine.
Like he’s been searching the high seas for me for decades and had almost given up hope.
Or possibly just like he’s horny.
Or maybe he likes me.
He totally likes you, my vagina squeals.
She’s such a hopeless romantic.
