“Oh sure. I call him all the time to yank his chain. Jax bet me twenty dollars I wouldn’t.”
Sounds like Jax. I follow Molly through the bar, feeling the curiosity of her coworkers as she directs me to the spot where other bartenders are dumping their loaded trays.
I set hers down. “This is where you bus your glasses?”
Molly nods.
“And the kitchen is right there?”
“Yep.” She gives me an impish grin and I feel her dissecting me with her wide eyes, taking in my weathered clothes and wild hair and trying to figure out who the fuck I am. “You don’t like the door?”
“The door’s fine. I’m just wondering how it’s going to work when you’re running food through a space that’s already congested.”
Molly frowns. She doesn’t see it, and I hope she never does, but I see chaos in my future, and it ain’t all me.
I leave Molly with her glasses and venture to the kitchen door. I push it open, bracing myself for what Jax has already warned me is a small space. But instead of squashed-in ovens and teetering piles of pots and pans, I find myself tripping over the hottest pair of legs I’ve ever seen.
It’s a shock that’s instantly engrossing. The kneecaps sit atop muscular calves, corded, tanned, and dusted with light brown hair, and above them are the kind of thighs I can’t look at without getting a boner.
Fucking-A.
I haven’t trained for this shit, so I do the sensible thing and back up…straight into the open door, cracking it with my elbow.
Awesome.
Buzzing pain ripples through me.
I grind my teeth. “Fuck’ssake.”
The exclamation spills out before I can stop it, and whoever the legs belong to jumps a mile. A spanner clangs to the floor, and he curses up a storm too.
Oops.
I crouch to make my apologies, and I’m in time for the owner of the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen to sit up and…Jesuswept, I’m not prepared for the rugged scruff, chiseled cheekbones, and honey-brown eyes that stare back at me. Is it possible to die from a hot dude meeting your gaze? Cos, I’m telling you now, I’m highly unlikely to survive this. “Um…sorry I snuck up on you. I’m Joss.”
For the third time that day, I hold out my hand, andanotherbruising grip assaults mine.
But this one is different.Thisbloke doesn’t have Tanner’s inked fingers or Molly’s dainty knuckles. He has warm, dry palms, and they’re rough. Work-hardened and callused. And if I thought his legs were a dream, they’ve got nothing on the sinewy beauty of his golden forearms.Seriously.They’re like, fantasy arms. Not stupid big, butstrong.
Capable.
Man, this bloke can’t be real. If he was, he’d have let go of my hand by now.
Or, you know, you could let go of his.
Too late, I realize I’ve been clinging to him far too long. And, that he hasn’t spoken, so whatever the fuck I think I’m doing with his hand has poured an extra layer of awkward on this meeting.
I release him. “Something wrong with the sink?”
The guy blinks. “What?”
“The sink. Is it broken?”
“Oh. Fuck. No. Just brand new and at war with the ancient pipes.”
“Two worlds collide?”
“Something like that. You’re the new chef, right?”
