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He’s dressed all in black. The solitary light casts harsh shadows across his face giving him an eerily similar look to the skull tattooed on his throat.
I wipe my eyes with my wrists. “Oh. Hi.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw you come out here and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. And, I don’t know, I didn’t like the idea of you being out here alone, in the alley at midnight.”
“You’re right. I should probably go back inside now. Thank you, but I’m okay.” I muster the best smile I can.
He steps closer, lowering his head, brows knitted together. “Are you sure?”
Guess that smile was unconvincing.
Another tear slips down my face. Damnit.
“Yes. No.” An unhinged little giggle escapes my throat. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a bartender.”
He reaches over and brushes his thumb across my cheek, catching my last tear. My chest tightens at the contact.
“I think you were doing all right,” he says quietly.
My stomach drops realizing he witnessed my catastrophe.
“I don’t want to go back in there,” I say, my voice quivering an embarrassing amount.
We’re somehow even closer. I look up at him and a chill twists its way down my limbs.
“Then don’t,” he says.
“I can’t. I kind of need this job, and Bex stuck her neck out for me, and?—”
“Bex will be fine, and you can find another job. Something you’ll like better.”
I don’t know what to say, so instead of saying anything I just start crying harder.
“Shh.” Noah’s deep tone is low and before I know it, he’s pulled me against him, fingers in my hair holding my head to his chest.
And I cry, I cry into Noah Dixon’s chest like a little baby, and I don’t know if I’m more embarrassed or relieved. But it feels good. He feels good. Solid.
After a few minutes, the tears subside.
Noah strokes my hair. “Would you want to come work for me instead?”
“What?” I look up at him.
He’s staring intensely down at me. Mouth fixed. No hint of laughter or joking. “I’ve been looking for a second person to work the front desk for a while. Taryn’s been taking more and more clients.”
I’m not sure how to respond. “You’re offering me a job?”
“If you want it, yes.”
So, I’m starting a new job.
Again.
Is it a bad idea to be working for the man who was the subject of all my sexual awakening fantasies through puberty? Probably, yes.
Should I stop staring at him from across the shop as he’s tattooing and focus on what Taryn is saying? Also, probably, yes.
But the way the muscles in his back move and the way his triceps flex as he works is mesmerizing. The line of his thick neck, covered in tattoos—the way they highlight the sharp angle of his jaw, the way he’s deep in concentration, such a stern expression, and yet his mouth is still softly downturned—it’s all too much.
