I stand frozenbehind the counter and stare at this mountain of a man who just informed me that I'm going out to dinner with him.
My brain has completely short-circuited.
Did Ben Mitchell, world champion boxer and possibly the most gorgeous human being I've ever laid eyes on, just ask me out?
I blink rapidly. I wonder if I've accidentally inhaled too much lavender oil and hallucinated this entire interaction.
“I-I’m sorry. What?” I manage.
“Isaid Iwant you to havedinner with me,” Ben repeats. “Tonight.”
“I heard what you said,” I reply, my voice coming out higher than I’d like. “It’s just that...well, I can’t.”
Something shifts in Ben’s expression. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t,” I repeat, swallowing hard.“My store doesn’tclose until ten.”
He takes a step closer to me.
“You’re the owner, right?Close early.”
I let out a snort.
“I can’t just close early because a random customer asks me to dinner.”
Ben frowns.
“I’m not a random customer.” He leans forward slightly, and I catch a hint of his scent—something warm and masculine underneath the lingering notes of my own shop’s fragrances. “And you can if you want to.”
“It’s not about wanting to,” I argue, even though my traitorous heart is screamingYES, GO, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.
“Then what’s it about?”
Isigh and rub my temple where I feel a headache starting to bloom. Finally, I say,“I have a quota to hit.”
“A quota?”
“Yes. A quota.”
I don’t elaborate. I don’t tell him that I need exactly eight hundred and fifty dollars by Tuesday, or my landlord is going to kick me out. I don’t tell him that every candle I sell is the difference between keeping this roof over my head and moving back to my parents’ basement in Connecticut, where I’d have to listen to my mother lecture me about how my “little perfume hobby” was a waste of a college degree.
This shop isn’t just a business. It’s my rebellion.
It’s my soul.
If I fail, I’m not just broke. I’m wrong.
And I really,reallyhate being wrong.
“Look, Friday nights are my best days for sales,” I continue, talking faster to drown out the little voice screaming at me to stop being an idiot. “If I close early, I lose the revenue. And if I lose the revenue, I can’t make rent. So, thank you for the invite, but I need to stay open.”
I finish my speech and look up, expecting him to shrug and leave.
That’s what a normal person would do. That’s what any sane man would do when confronted with a rambling shopkeeper who just explained her entire business model instead of simply saying yes to dinner.
But Ben doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even look annoyed.
Instead, he just says, “How much?”
