Right?
I only felt bad about being an asshole.
I’m here for one reason, and it sure as hell isn’t him.
He’s still talking about dough and the blast chiller, but my eyes keep drifting around the room. It’s a mess. The sink is full of dirty dishes, and equipment is shoved wherever it’ll fit. There doesn’t seem to be much else back here.
“What’s in those cabinets?”
Sawyer turns and opens the row of cabinets containing ingredients and some molds and mixing bowls.
No elephant.
So it might be upstairs. It’s okay. I have time. This is only the first week. I told Ivan I have an in, and if I do what he asks, everything will be fine. Ivan was clear that I’m not to fuck anything up. No noise. No one prying into our business. I’m not sure why, but he’s grown even more paranoid since we got back to New York.
“I’m just used to doing everything myself,” Sawyer says, dragging a hand through his hair. I watch pieces fall right back over his forehead. “Not used to explaining things.”
Act like you give a shit.I can do this.
Focus on the job, not the neurotic mess of a man before me. “You do this every day?” His tired gaze lifts to me, and I can see he’s barely holding himself together. All this work, and for what?
“Yeah. Every day. Hence why I have no life.”
“Why do you do it if no one comes in?”
Sawyer blinks like I’ve hit him. “Um. Ouch.”
“No, I just mean... it’s a lot of work, right? For what?”
“Not helping, man.” He smiles, shaking his head. “You’re right. You don’t people well.”
I step closer. I don’t know shit about baking, but I can do this at least. He deflates, curling back over his notebook and scribbling something down. “I have to come up with the menu for the Valentine’s event. Not sure what we’re officially calling it, though.”
“Valentine’s,” I scoff.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Sorry, Mr. Cynical, but some of us like romance and big dramatic feelings. It’s going to be fun.” He grins. “Maybe I’ll meet someone.”
A sharp flicker of heat coils in my stomach.
I shove it down.
“I am sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to be an asshole, it just?—”
“Comes naturally?” Sawyer murmurs.
I look at him as his eyes lift to mine, and the warmth in them catches me. Nothing like the dark stormy brown they were the other night. It’s like they shift with his mood, and right now he’s being playful.
“I said I was sorry,” I repeat.
Sawyer hops off his seat then walks over to me and reaches out a hand. He nods toward it. I slowly slide my hand into his and my world narrows to his touch. The soft warm squeeze of his fingers makes my pulse quicken. I can feel it beating under my skin. My fingers linger a bit too long.
I pull away.
“Truce.”
