But he doesn't. His fingers brush mine as he takes the bottle from my hands. The touch is brief. A second. Maybe less.
But I feel it everywhere.
A jolt that runs up my arm and spreads across my chest. Pure reaction. Involuntary. The kind my body delivers without asking permission.
I don't want to react to him. But I do anyway.
He grins like he felt it too. Like he knows exactly what just happened. "No harm done. Especially when you're delivering my favorite."
I blink. My thoughts stutter. Restart. "Your favorite?"
He holds the bottle up to the light. "Excellent taste."
I don't know what to say. Don't know if I'm supposed to say anything.
His eyes drop to my other hand. "What's that?"
I glance down. The loaf of bread. Wrapped in brown paper. I'd forgotten I was holding it.
"Fig and black pepper bread," I say. My voice sounds steadier now. Almost normal. "I baked it this morning. It pairs well with the whiskey. With the blue cheese or prosciutto I stocked yesterday."
I shift my weight. Angle my body toward the door. "I'm really sorry for interrupting. I'll go now."
I take a step.
He moves into my path. Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just there. Blocking the exit without making it obvious that's what he's doing.
"Hold on." His smile widens. "What you just described sounds… mouthwatering."
He glances at the other two men. The older one's face is stone. The blind one's jaw is tight enough to crack teeth.
"Problem is," the big one continues, looking at me now, "we wouldn't know where to start. Would you mind putting something together for us?"
The blind one speaks for the first time. His voice is cold. Flat. A command, not a suggestion. "That's not necessary. Leave the bottle. Go."
The big one looks at the other men. Something passes between them. A challenge, maybe. A warning. "We still have business to discuss." Then his eyes land on me. "And I'm starving. We'll pay you, obviously."
There's something happening here. Something beneath the words. The tension between them is suffocating. The way the older one has positioned himself between the other two like abarrier. The way the blind one's hands are clenched into fists at his sides.
I should leave. Walk out. Forget this ever happened.
But if I leave now, after barging in unannounced, after interrupting whatever this is, my boss might decide I'm not worth the trouble. Might decide the company is better off without someone who makes mistakes like this.
And I can't afford to lose this job.
"You don't need to pay me," I say quickly. "I'll put something together. It won't take long. I'll be out of your way before you know it."
I don't wait for permission. Just turn and head for the kitchen.
Behind me, I hear voices. Low. Urgent. Arguing. I can't make out the words. Just the heat of them.
I focus on the task in front of me. Open the refrigerator. Pull out the blue cheese, prosciutto. Find the balsamic in the cabinet. Grab a cutting board. A knife.
My hands are still shaking. I press them flat against the counter. Force them to steady.
Then I start working.
Slice the bread. Thin, even pieces. The rhythm is familiar. Comforting. Muscle memory taking over where my brain left off. This, I know how to do. This, I'm good at.
