“Now?”
“No. No, after the shift. When…”
When everybody’s gone, she means. It’ll be Sunday afternoon, edging into nighttime and Frida will take off to be with her wife, the two waitstaff always rush out, too. It’ll just be me and her. “Yep,” I tell her, unclear from her expression whether this little chat will be a good thing or not. “Better get back. Pasta needs boiling.”
“Right. Yeah.”
She backs up and I move by her, leaving enough space so she won’t feel my pounding hard-on, but if she looks down, she’ll know.
I use the pasta to hide her effect on me as I return to the kitchen. Thankfully, Frida doesn’t pay me the slightest attention, unless it’s to reply when I call orders, and Toni, the dishwasherkid’s in his own world, headphones in place, dancing like if he stops, he’ll deflate.
It feels like hours later when the last of them leaves. The place is sparkling, pristine in a way few kitchens are after a shift, but I’m an asshole like that. Like Dad insisted on back in the day, nobody leaves until the work space shines.
Finally, anticipation edging into every part of my body, I wipe off my hands, undo my apron, and head out to the front.
Kit
“We need a contract.”
“Yeah?”
I shove the papers I’ve just printed in the office at him and stand behind the bar once again, pouring myself a drink. Wine, this time. I need something tamer than whiskey.
It occurs to me as I take my first sip, that I might not be able to drink by this time next month. Would it be that early? I can’t remember when you know, at first. Weeks, right? Nine weeks? No. No, it’s less. You tell people at twelve. I’d already told everyone, back then, when I miscarried.
“Pretty detailed,” Jake says, eyes still on the sheaf of papers in front of where he’s seated at the bar.
“I figured it was a good idea. To be thorough.”
“When’d you do this?”
“I had a lull.”
“During the shift?”
“Last night and today.”
Nodding, he edges the papers aside, his focus on me.
“Want a drink?” I ask.
“You trying to get me buzzed so I’ll sign this thing?” His eyes crinkle with a wry sort of humor. “Not sure it’ll stand up in a court of law if I’m over the limit.”
“No! That’s not what I’m trying to?—”
“Slow your roll, Katarina. I’m just kiddin’.”
Annoyance flares at that easy, good ole boy way of talking. It reminds me of my brother. When we were kids, Frank was always telling me to relax. Stop worrying. Calm down. None of it useful, of course, unless his plan was to get me ridiculously riled up.
“Right. That’s just great.” I lean to grab the papers, suddenly irritated as hell that this guy has the gall to waltz in here out of nowhere and tell me how to act in my own goddamn restaurant. When we’re talking about my body. This is for me, after all, not for him. He’s just coming along to get his rocks off. “You know what. Let’s forget about it. You’re a little too bossy for what I?—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He’s got the contract in one hand, held above his head, the pen in the other.
I don’t want him to sign. To make this bizarre situation real. I want him to disappear and stop confusing me with his too-big-for-this-place presence. Not larger than life, exactly, since he’s not loud the way that would insinuate, or overbearing. At all. He’s just…tooreal.
I smelled him the other day when he bandaged up my hand and there were none of the things I’d have imagined for him. No cedar or leather or other so-called guy scents. No. Jake Brand smelled exactly like what he is: A man. Soap and skin with the faintest hint of sweat.
The scent wasn’t put together in some lab by a perfumer in an attempt to titillate the senses, it was created by nature and genetics and singlehandedly awoke some base, animalistic thing inside me.
