“I can take your shirt and clean it,” Mr. Lanky Scowl says.
“You don’t need to do that,” says Greg.
“I made the mess. I’d like to clean it.”
Greg nods. “If you insist,” he says and hands him the shirt, wrung out but still damp.
“See you out there,” Mr. Lanky Scowl says, turning away.
“Wait,” Greg calls out. “I didn’t catch your name.”
Mr. Lanky Scowl pauses for a moment almost as if he’s trying to remember it, but then he says, “Julien Boire.”
Julien Boire. That’s the kind of name you could savor.
It’s got a classiness to it. A name that’s fun to say and tastes like a boulevardier—Campari, sweet vermouth, and bourbon. Tart with a sting. A perfect fall drink. Greg makes a mental note to add it to the specials menu.
“That’s a nice name,” Greg says finally.
For the first time, Mr. Lanky Scowl becomes Mr. Lanky Smile. Dazzling. His teeth are crisply white, and his lips reveal their true fullness by staying plump even as they spread wide.
Those lips could be savored, too.
“Greg here,” he says before smiling back, smooth flirtation bouncing off his every movement, but then he remembers his goal.A friend.The last thing he needs is to be known as the staff playboy. He doesn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about him. So he dials it back and offers his hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you.”
Their hands touch for a second—the swiftest of shakes—and then Julien is turning around and marching off.
Greg stays behind in the bathroom, outfitting himself in the too-small shirt which he can only button part of the way. With most of his furry chest exposed, he looks in the mirror and decides that maybe this will be an adventure after all.
Four
JULIEN
Julien counts out his tips at the end of the night, doing the mental math he’s become so good at when it comes to budgeting.
It’s hard to do math, though, when visions of your hot new coworker keep plaguing you every five seconds. Seeing Greg Harlow in his shirt was a sight he was wholly unprepared for. The way the fabric strained over Greg’s shoulders and hugged his chest more than the soaked cotton T-shirt ever could made Julien’s knees weak.
It was easy to write off his instant, heated attraction to the personable mixologist when it was only TikTok videos making his heart race and his pits sweat, but it was more difficult to deny when his new coworker was on full display for his eyes only back by the bathroom.
And what a display it was...
He shakes his head to himself, frustrated and having lost track of which piles of cash and coins he’s counted and which he hasn’t. He’ll have to start over now. Fantastic. He pockets the bills and heads into the office where he laid Greg’s T-shirt out to dry after blotting it with dish detergent and cold water.
When he stole a peek at the tag on Greg’s T-shirt, he saw the name of some designer he’d never heard of in a lux script font. Julien owns a similar T-shirt which he bought for ten dollars at Target. Four of Greg’s fancy T-shirts could probably pay Julien’s way through his advanced sommelier course and exam.
He doesn’t want to resent his new coworker for his excess, but it seems he already does.
As he folds the shirt up to return to Greg, Aunt Augustine comes into the office, sipping another bottle of sparkling seltzer. Her hair is up in a ponytail now, and a pair of patterned glasses rests atop her head. She’s always the last to leave because she’s a night owl and does her best accounting work when the restaurant is quiet.
“Assaulting our new hire on day one,” she says, waltzing over to the desk. “Not your best move, hun.”
“It was an accident,” he says, running his fingers across the soft fabric of Greg’s T-shirt. It feels lovely. Maybe there is something to be said for splurging on nicer materials.
“I know. I’m just yankin’ your leg,” she says. She plops down in the chair and blows a stray hair out of her eyes. “It was nice of you to lend him a shirt, though I think some of our customers were concerned we were planning on starting an all-male revue with how close those buttons were to popping off and poking someone’s eye out.”
He doesn’t think too hard about that particular image.Nope. Uh-uh.“It was the least I could do.”
Aunt Augustine looks up over the rim of the cheetah-print readers she’s put on. “He’s a good-looking guy.”
