“I wasn’t partying, sir, I was…” I trail off.
One discriminatory eyebrow raises. “You were what?” he presses.
I swallow.
You. I was doing you.
He is vibrantly alert. It must be the coffee; maybe he makes it stronger than I do.
“I started another job,” I say, looking at the floor. The pattern in the marble is suddenly very interesting.
“A third job?” he asks. “Aren’t you already bussing tables at night?”
I stare at him. Lady Gaga’s neighbor or not,Domhas no business talking to me like this.
“I’m a bartender,” I correct him.
“Right,” he nods. “Well, as someone who gets paid to make drinks in a timely manner, I’d appreciate it if my coffee was hot and ready at 7:05.”
I am fuming.
Dominic turns to walk away, and I stop him.
“What happened to your face?” I ask, and he stops, his posture bristling a little.
He clicks his tongue before turning back to face me again. “I got in a fight,” he says without apprehension.
Dominic never has apprehension about anything. He’s decisive and impossible to fluster. Catching him off guard would be a miracle. I do think my retaliation surprised him a little because his jaw is taut, and I swear his lips are twitching.
“How’s the other guy look?” I ask.
There’s a beat where he studies me, trying to decide where I get off asking him such a thing.
Meanwhile, excitement trickles into my veins.
“Much worse,” he finally says.
And before he can turn around again, I say, “Looks like it needs stitches.”
His mouth slackens, and his eyes narrow slightly.
My heart picks up speed as he studies me.
But when his face returns to its normal look of emotionless indifference, I think I’m in the clear.
I can’t believe I let that slip out.
Thank God, he doesn’t recognize me.
He walks into his office and closes his door half way like he always does.
It’s then that I realize I’m torn in how I feel.
How does he not recognize that I am the girl from last night?
But I also think, thank goodness he doesn’t realize the girl from last night is me.
What the hell?
