“Are you serious right now?” I demand.
“As ED.”
“What?”
“Erectile dysfunction,” he clarifies. He looks up at the ceiling as if taking a moment of silence for a loved one or something. “It’s a very serious and very common disorder plaguing?—”
I lift my hand. “Stop talking, I’m begging you.”
“You’re the one who asked,” he grumbles.
“And I regretted it instantly.”
Undeterred, he sits on one of the barstools closest to the counter and rests his elbows on the hard surface separating us. “So, what do you say about the money?”
“What about it?” I ask, afraid if he sees my desperation, Ford will only hold it over my head like my dad would.
“Violet,” my manager interrupts, “you got the front?”
“Yup.”
“Good, I’m goin’ out for a smoke break.”
“See ya,” I reply while turning back to the pain in the ass in front of me. Biting the inside of my cheek, I stare up at him, choosing my next words as wisely as I can. “Why are you here, Ford? And I mean why are youreallyhere?”
“I wanted some coffee, which I’ve yet to receive, by the way. I’ll take a pumpkin spice latte with whip cream.”
I bite back my snort but get to work ringing up his order. “That’ll be five thousand, six dollars and thirty two cents.” I hold out my hand for his card. “Would you like to leave a tip?”
With a grin, he hands over his black Amex. “You’re clever.” As I charge his card the proper amount because, you know, I have a conscience and don’t want to go to jail for credit card theft, he says, “True or false, your dad’s too much of an ass to pay you back.”
“And here we are with the games again,” I quip, handing him back his card. “Didn’t we already discuss this when I was”—I lift my hands to do air quotes—“cockblockingyou?”
Unamused, he steals a cookie from the jar next to the register and takes a bite. “Reel in the snobbery, will you?”
“Why should I? It’s my best feature.”
His jaw tics the same way his brother’s does, and I hate how I notice the similarity. It’s not like they’re three peas in a pod or anything. They definitely have their differences. Like their eyes. Jagger’s are practically coal, while Ford’s are… I peek over at the man in question again. His golden-y green eyes roam my face, though I have no idea what he’s looking for or if he’ll find it.
I pause, suddenly feeling…I don’t know. Shy, maybe? It’s just…guys don’t usually look at me like this. Like they want to see what’s beneath the surface. And not in a sexual way. More like…I don’t know. It’s weird. And disarming. And…
“What?” I murmur.
“You know, despite how big of a pain in the ass you are, and despite the box you’ve put me and my brothers in, we’re not as big of dicks as you think, all right?”
“Could’ve fooled me.” I step behind the espresso machine and begin making his drink, going light on the whipped cream because I can. And hell, he’s lucky I don’t spit in it. When I’m finished, I hand him the white to-go cup, making sure my smile is syrupy sweet in case my manager catches a glimpse of this interaction. “Have a shitty day.”
He takes the cup. “You got any plans for Halloween?”
My forehead wrinkles. “Halloween?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Just answer the question, Violet.”
Seriously, what is it with these guys and random questions? It’s like I’m doing mental gymnastics anytime I’m in the same room with them.
