He holds it up to his torso. “We’ll have to make it work.”
Speedily, he’s stripping in front of me. I didn’t expect this, and I’m woefully unprepared for what I see as he peels his shirt up and over his head.
He’s toned but not cut. Built but not jacked. Hairy, but only on his chest and a tantalizing treasure trail. My eyes take a trip down the dusty strip that starts between his pecs and bisects his belly button, disappearing into the hemline of his exposed white Calvin Klein waistband.
The wordhothas never had much meaning to me until now. If I looked up its definition in the dictionary, I’m certain it would be accompanied by a snapshot ofhimlikethis.
I experience a soft stir below my belt. A tingle I haven’t had in a while.
Weird.
Too soon, he shimmies into the one-size-too-small T-shirt. It covers his stomach yet cinches his shoulders. His muscles are prominent against the straining fabric.
“How do I look?” he asks.
No matter how badly I want to say “hot,” I can’t and I won’t because that would be entirely unfriend-like, not to mention unprofessional, so I say “fine,” and he doesn’t question me any further. He’s not one of those needy guys who wants praise for his looks. He knows he’s got them—the body of a runner and the face of an influencer. I just hope the customers can look past his perky nipples while ordering their hot dogs.
Back on the floor, I plan to leave him in Avery’s capable hands, certain he knows the difference between salt and sugar. I need to coax a cowering Mateo out of the break room. Poor guy can’t catch a break. Can’t use his common sense either, but that’s a conversation for another time.
I’m about to knock on the bolted door when Earl comes charging inside. “Josh just called out sick—stomach flu. You’re another short in the shack it seems, missy.” Avery turns an even ghostlier white. We can’t handle a Friday-night crowd with two servers. Doing what a go-getting manager would do, I slip on an apron, willing and prepared to help. I hope it shows Earl how I’ve turned a corner after our last conversation. I’m taking initiative in every way I can.
Avery gives Derick a rundown of the sizes. She doesn’t dare show him how to operate the register because it’s old and complicated and slow. We should update its operating system, but at this point it’s so low on the totem pole of priorities that we’ve learned to make do. In some ways, we’ve come to love it, its finicky controls both frustrating and funny.
This is the first time I’ve seen Derick appear frazzled. Avery talks fast on the reg, and today she’s hurrying through the instructions. I make myself useful by getting the drawer ready with proper change and singles for the onslaught of hungry customers.
With minutes to spare, I saddle over to the break room. Mateo’s still on the phone inside. I call loudly to him. “Go away!” he cries.
“It’s Wren. Can you come out here?”
“No.”
“Can I come in there?”
“No!”
“I promise you’re not in trouble. I just want to talk.” This is my eighth summer. It’s Avery’s sixth. It’s Mateo’s first, and he only took the job after a heated argument with the artistic director of Rosevale summer stock. Transitions can be hard. I want to understand where he’s coming from.
I mean, some of the other newbies are taking to the responsibilities much easier, but that doesn’t diminish Mateo’s need for extra attention. I only wish we had enough hands to help him out.
“I’m not coming out until Avery apologizes for calling me a VIK!”
“Very important knockout?” I ask hopefully.
“Very incompetent klutz!” He’s using his pouty voice, the baby talk he turns on when he wants validation, but both of us know it’s not going to do any good. Avery is adamant about many things. Apologies take some time when she feels she’s done nothing wrong.
“Give her a bit to cool off. She’ll come around.” I check my watch. I don’t have much time to put a cap on this. “Would it help if I told you Derick is covering for you? You can take as long as you need. We’ll be out here when you’re ready.”
“Derick’s covering?” His voice is closer now.
“Yeah.” I glance back over my shoulder. For a laugh, Avery has made Derick wear one of the old Wiley’s visors, the bright-pink ones with embroidered lettering. I overhear her telling him that his “hair is too lush and tall so it might fall into the food.” I’m certain it’s to make him suffer a bit.
Considering Mateo a lost cause, I notice Derick’s DSLR camera bag sitting on one of the flat fridges. I slip the camera out and tinker with the controls a little. The lens pops out and the screen comes on. Right when he’s about to turn to me, a happy smile stretching across his lips, I take a candid shot of him, partly payback for the one he posted of me on Instagram and partly because he looks ridiculous and hot.
Okay, fine.Ridiculously hot.
Even. In. The. Visor.
When he notices what I’ve done, he races over to inspect the damage. Afraid he might delete it, I lead a game of keep-away, even though my height is no match for his. Our bodies press up against each other’s. The tight fabric of his shirt rides up, and the back of my forearm skims the exposed, fuzzy skin of his stomach. He’s laughing in my ear, hot and immediate, and swiftly, I feel electric. Aglow. Buzzing.
