‘I did,’ he confirms, sobering.
‘So the girl you drew on the fourth day was supposed to be me?’
I don’t know why I feel so jittery, waiting for his answer.
He nods and averts his gaze, then glances at me again, his brows knitting together. ‘I realised later that I probably freaked you out.’
‘No.’ I shake my head.
‘I can’t believe you came charging after me like that,’ he says with a small smile.
‘I kind of couldn’t help myself,’ I murmur, staring back at him.
After a few seconds of eye contact, I begin to feel weirdly hot and shivery. I reach for my mug, my face burning.
It’s been a long time since any man has made me feel like this, but there’s absolutely no denying that this is attraction in its purest form.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tom and I are interrupted by Bill, our head chef, appearing around the corner from the kitchen. ‘We’re off now, Liv, is that all right?’
‘Yes, of course.’
I jump up and cross the room to where the sous-chef and KP – kitchen porter – have emerged, putting on their coats.
I follow them down the stairs. It looks dark and foreboding outside, although at least the rain seems to have stopped.
Libby is sitting on a stool at the bar, tapping away at her laptop, while our scruffy-haired runner, Seb, unpacks the dishwasher. Kwame, one of two shit-hot mixologists that I’ve hired, is at the other end of the bar, looking at his phone. Our waitresses are sitting at a table, chatting. The place is deserted apart from the staff and Tom upstairs.
It’s not quite 5 p.m. and we’re technically open until six on Sundays, but I don’t think anyone else will brave the weather tonight.
‘Do the brush-down and then you can head home,’ I call over to the waitresses.
They jump to their feet, pleased, and make a beeline for the stairs.
‘You too,’ I say to the bar staff. ‘I’ll lock up.’
Seb hastily puts away the last few glasses and Kwame pockets his phone.
Kwame thinks he’s doing me a favour by working here, and in all honesty, he is. Seeing the way he flairs as he mixes cocktails is a sight to behold. He’s also drop-dead gorgeous with a sleeve of tattoos that drunken women are always trying to get a closer look at.
‘Are you sure?’ Libby asks me, checking her watch.
‘I’m sure. Off you go.’
Libby will appreciate the extra time at home. She’s a fashion designer and makes clothes for some of the local boutiques. We’re kindred spirits, working all hours in hospitality to do the thing we love best. She recently moved to Aggie with her boyfriend, Luke, our second mixologist.
Tom appears with our empty mugs.
‘Sorry, I know they’re putting chairs on tables up there, but we’re still open. You don’t need to leave,’ I say apologetically.
‘I’m good, thanks. I was planning to head back to the cottage for an early tea.’
‘Oh, okay. What are you having?’ I ask conversationally.
‘I fancy a burger, but it’s not the right weather for a barbecue. I might make Mexican and freeze some.’
‘That sounds nice.’
