“Why wouldn’t I be?” I shouldn’t do this here, but she’s actually talking to me. Confusing me, but I appreciate the dialogue nonetheless.
She huffs out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know what you want, Cruz. I’m not the type of girl you date.”
The pleasure that ripples over me when she says my name is dulled by her disbelief. The first time I stepped into Dee’s Sweets, I got caught in an aloof, hazel tractor beam. I was brushed off by the woman with a mop of mahogany hair that’s as haphazard as the clothes she wears. I developed a sweet tooth that only craves shy bakers.
I need to drop this whole entire topic, yet I can’t quit. Her attention is on me, but again, not in the way I’ve wanted. “And just what type do I date?”
I don’t date much. I’ve done my share of fucking around, but since moving to Huckleberry Springs, I’ve kept my personal life tame.
Vulnerability flickers in her eyes before she shakes her head, ignoring the question, and pulls the box toward her.
Quiet and stubborn. That’s apparently my type.
I plant my hands on the counter and lean forward. Is she... jealous? Is she really interested? Should I have taken my chance and asked her out? Should I do it now?
I left playing games in my childhood. I open my mouth to shoot my shot.
“Have you washed your hands?” Her gaze drops to where I’m touching the countertop.
Here’s a bar of soap, Cruz. Use it.
Old shame wells inside me, andWant to go out sometime?dies on my tongue. “I’m not dirty.”
She hits me with a plaintive look, but there’s a thread of understanding. “I didn’t say you were,” she says softly, “but I serve food to the public.”
Right. I was too defensive. This is her place of work, and I’m not an unwashed kid anymore. I peel my palms off the table and hold them out in surrender. “Yes. I’ve washed them.”
“You don’t have a hairnet.” She shoos me back, but there’s a brusqueness behind that keeps it from feeling personal. “Thank you for the delivery. Sorry for hollering at you.” She says the last part with equal efficiency, but there’s a hint of real remorse there.
Elodie keeps a lot of herself from showing. That elusive part of her calls to me. She doesn’t foist her overwhelmed emotions on anyone else. Usually. Except for this morning.
If I’m the exception, I’ll take it. It’s something to show for this one-sided obsession. “No problem.”
Her attention swings to the bottles, and she frowns. “Wait. I only ordered one bottle each of whiskey, gin, and vodka.”
She did, and she told us to surprise her with any flavor. We gifted her three bottles. We’re not going to charge her, but I have the feeling that news will be as appreciated right now as asking her out. “I tossed in a Butter Barrel. It’s made like a bourbon, but we didn’t follow the aging or proofing guidelines. What wewere after is a buttery flavor with a bourbon richness. Thought it would make a good flavoring for something.”
“Like what?” she asks, slightly interested.
I have no idea beyond wanting to surprise her with something. “An icing?”
She nods and works her teeth against her lower lip. Then she gives her head a shake. “I have plenty of ideas for the other bottles, so this isn’t necessary.”
Maybe it’s the early morning or that I got caught ogling her or the flashbacks to being a loser kid, but my attitude roars to the forefront, tired of being repressed for so many years. I don’t like to be dismissed. “How about a thank-you?”
She winces and nods once. “Thank you. You can leave it on the invoice.”
Great. I’m treading too close to being a jackass. “It’s a gift. We appreciate local businesses and want to help out. Keep it and enjoy a glass.”
She slides the box closer to her and studies the bottle. “I don’t have time to enjoy a drink. It would get old and go to waste.”
“It might get a little rusty tasting after a couple of decades from oxidation, but it’ll still taste good. You keep it in case you come up with something. Bourbon’s meant for sharing.”
“You said it was whiskey.”
Ah, I’m starting to track this woman now. She either doesn’t like to be messed with or she’s very literal. “Sure is. Want a sip?”
“I’m working.”
