“I haven’t,” he says. “But I’ve had jobs all my life. And I know that many hands make light work.”
I let him help.
He’s right. Cleaning up goes twice as fast with his help. He’s thorough and efficient and doesn’t ask stupid questions.
Doesn’t ask any questions at all.
The silence feels weird and charged and I’m itching to say something to cover it.
Normally, I’m kind of a blabbermouth. Give me a conversational vacuum and I’ll happily fill it with my rambling, or ask any number of nosy questions. I like getting to know people. I don’t mind a stranger pouring their heart out to me or just simple small talk. It’s part of my job as much as serving drinks.
But I get the feeling that the more I know about this guy, the more I might like him. The last thing I want is a crush on my co-worker.
I’ve made a lot of romantic mistakes, but I don’t shit where I eat.
Fifteen minutes later, the tabletops are gleaming. The floors have been swept. Every surface dusted.
And I didn’t have to lift a finger to do it.
Pretty Boy—okay, I guess I can call himLukenow that he’s proven himself at least a little worthy of putting a name to the face—comes back over with the rag and spray bottle.
“Can I wash up in the restroom?” he asks.
“Down the hallway past the pool table, to your left.”
When he comes back out, his sleeves are pushed up, hands clean but still faintly smelling like soap and lemon oil wood polish.
I hold out the pink box of cake to him. “Congratulations.You’re the grand prize winner of the Valentine’s Day popularity contest.”
He takes the box of cake from me and looks at it for a second. “I’m kind of hungry. You want to share some?”
The question takes me so off-guard that I find myself blurting out, “Sure” before I can think the better of it.
I grab two forks from the silverware container while Luke takes down two of the chairs that he propped up on the tables when he swept and mopped everything. As I sit down and open up the cake box, he goes to the jukebox and puts a coin in. A moment later, “Neon Moon” by Brooks & Dunn comes crooning through the speakers.
“I love this song,” I tell him as he comes back over.
“I thought you might.” He points to the neon sign of a moon behind the bar. “You put that up, I’m guessing.”
Damn, he’s observant. That’s a vanishingly rare quality in a guy.
“Felt fitting,” I say. “Given the song lyrics.”
As he settles in, I hand him a fork. Our fingers brush as he takes it, and a funny little zing of electricity goes through me.
He cuts off a bite of cake and spears it on his fork. But instead of taking it for himself, he hands it back to me. “Ladies first.”
Our fingers brush again. Another little electric zing.
As I close my lips around the little wedge of cake, his gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
The taste of chocolate and frosting hits my taste buds in an explosion of sweetness. My eyes flutter closed.
“God, that’s so good,” I say, once I swallow.
Is it just my imagination or are his pupils way more dilated than they were a second ago?
He wrenches his eyes away and takes his own bite of cake. Nods thoughtfully. When he’s done eating, he says, “I’m not a sweets person, but you’re right. That’s pretty damn good.”
