It took a while for him to respond.
George: Humour me.
Irritation licked up my spine.
Rosie: Not today. I’ve had a Dachshund with explosive diarrhoea shit all down my scrubs. Flirting is not a priority right now.
I sent it and threw my phone on the bench cluttered with paper and charts. Flopping down into the office chair, I ran a hand down my face, taking a deep breath. Every few seconds, my gaze bounced back to my phone, which hadn’t buzzed in at least five minutes.
Shit.
I was in a bad mood, but that wasn’t his fault. It also wasn’t his fault that last night I had made myself come thinking of him. His voice in my ear, telling me unholy things that had my thighs itching to clench tightly together. Yet, at the same time, I desperately wanted it to be his fault. Maybe then I could make sense of this attraction. This attraction that could never, and would never, go anywhere.
I was seconds away from grabbing the offending device and typing out a vague apology when it vibrated. The speed at which I picked it up should have been a warning sign.
George: Are you free over lunch? I could use your help with something.
Not in the mood to do any more digging, I told him yes, and he sent me an address of where to meet him.
The next hour flew by quickly. By the time I was heading out the door, waving a quick goodbye to Jean at the front desk, I was running late.
I typed the address he’d given me into my GPS. My eyes narrowed when the destination popped up on my screen.That can’t be right. After triple-checking his text, I gave up questioning and started walking since it was only five minutes away.
Faded blue lettering above a building that looked like it had seen better days caught my eye. Glass windows proudly displayed mannequins dressed in outfits from the eighties. Behind them, I could see racks and racks of clothes of all mismatched colours zig-zagging across the floor.
A thrift shop. He’d asked me to meet him at a fucking thrift shop. My fresh scrubs were bunched under my thick coat, and my hair was pulled back into a tight bun.
I was about to call George in a fit of pique when I saw a familiar, hulking figure move between the rows of clothes. Pushing open the glass doors, I was instantly greeted with the stench of stale coffee and musty clothes. A bell tinkled above my head. A girl who couldn’t have been older than seventeen was leaning on the counter, scrolling through her phone, and without looking up, said in a bored voice, ‘Hi, welcome toSecond Threads.’
My lips parted to respond when a shadow cast over my face. George stood in front of me, and a lump the size of a grapefruit lodged itself in my throat.
Don’t think about last night.The light layer of makeup I usually wore to work would do nothing to hide the blush staining my cheeks as I tried to tamp down the delectably dirty thoughts running through my head.
A thick red flannel coat draped over his broad shoulders and dark jeans moulded themselves to his tree-trunkesque legs. Smudges of dirt and other stains decorated the material. He didn’t care.
Some part of me liked that—liked that he didn’t give a fuck about other people’s opinions.
I tilted my head, shoving my arms deep into my coat pockets to stop them from doing something stupid like reach out and touch him. ‘Have you had a lobotomy?’
With all the seriousness in the world, he replied, ‘Not recently. I’ve got one scheduled for next Thursday, though.’
I bit back a smile at how easily he quipped back.
Looking around me at a complete loss, I asked, ‘What are we doing in a thrift shop?’
He held up a finger. ‘Lesson one: Small talk.’ And then walked away. I gaped at his retreating form incredulously ashe headed to the back of the store to the formal wear section.Lesson one?
When my brain had caught up, I followed him. ‘What in the frickety-fracking-fuck-buckets is going on right now?’
He trawled through the suits hanging haphazardly on hangers, eyes determined as he rifled through the options. ‘How’s work going?’
Okay, he had definitely lost his mind.‘It’s fine.’ I folded my arms over my chest, trying not to get dizzy with the amount of flips this conversation had taken. ‘What are we doing?’
For a split second, his eyes snapped back to mine. ‘Talking.’
He pulled a black suit out from the rack and held it up. Whatever he saw made the creases in the corner of his eyes crinkle even deeper. He put it back with a sigh.
‘This is where you ask about my day,’ he said, carrying on looking, sparing a glance at me. If I hadn’t been nearly struck dumb by the odd turn my day had taken, I might not have noticed the soft tug at the corner of his lips.
