Page 22 of Aldo

“I’m off in an hour,” she whispered, pleading, reaching for me.

I shook my head.

“No.”

And I left her.

VI

The bastard left. Like a coward. Heading in the opposite direction of Wanda and disappearing around the corner. The supply room door shut behind him, clicking into place quietly.

I bent and picked up the napkins, grabbing another package just as Wanda appeared, pushing open the door.

“Oh, there you are. Did the door stick again?” she asked.

“Um, yes. I was about to call and ask for help,” I improvised.

“I’ll get maintenance again.” She peered at me. “Are you all right? You’re a little sweaty.”

“I hate confined spaces,” I lied. I couldn’t tell my boss I had just had the hell kissed out of me by Aldo and if she hadn’t shown up, we’d be fucking like rabbits by now. Instead, I was turned on, angry, and shocked at his sudden withdrawal.

Frustrating man. I knew he was interested. I saw his glances. Felt his intensity. I saw the way he reacted to the customer giving me his number. He wasn’t the first customer to do so, and I doubted he’d be the last, but I was always polite. I never called them. I had no intention of doing so, but Aldo didn’t need to know that. Yet.

And after the stunt he’d just pulled, maybe I wouldn’t tell him.

I followed Wanda down the hall, silently planning my revenge.

ALDO

I was still kicking myself two days later over kissing Vi. If Wanda hadn’t come looking for her, I would have lost my head and taken her right then and there. I was her boss, and fucking her in the supply room at the back of the restaurant was an HR issue waiting to explode.

But the taste of her lingered in my head. I swore I could still smell her. Feel her. Normally not one for kissing, I had a feeling I could kiss her endlessly and never tire of it. That smart mouth of hers was highly addictive.

I shook my head, recalling the way she had reached out when I pulled back. She had wanted me as much as I wanted her. But it was a recipe for disaster. I needed to avoid her.

Which meant no more visits to the Rolling Dice. No more walk-bys or check-ins.

It was odd how much that bothered me.

A knock at my door interrupted my thoughts. “In,” I called.

One of the servers came in with a tray.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“It was ordered in person,” he replied, sliding it onto my desk. “On your behalf.”

He left, and I studied the tray. My favorite Reuben and fries. A vanilla milkshake, tempting, the condensation glistening on the glass. And an envelope with my name on it written in a feminine hand. I had no doubt who’d sent me dinner.

I took a bite of the sandwich, staring at the envelope, curious as to the contents. Would it be scathing? Angry? Was she upset?

I barked a laugh in the empty room. Of course she was upset. I should probably man up and apologize. Assure her it would never happen again.

I frowned as a thought occurred to me. She wasn’t going to quit, was she?

My appetite gone, I set aside the sandwich and wiped my fingers. I tore open the well-sealed envelope and scanned the contents. I had to blink and reread it. Twice. Even then, I could barely believe what I held in my hands.

Pictures, printed onto a simple page of white paper.