“Go on,” she adds, a devilish smile on her face. “Chop, chop.”
“Ex-cuse me, Beave?”
“Oh, you done it now,” Tristan drawls as he spools some loose floss.
Laine lifts her ass off the barstool and leans over the bar. Her eyes are alight with mischief, a small, satisfied smirk dancing on her lips. She’s soclose, I can smell the crisp citrus notes of young wine wafting off her skin. It fits her, highlighting her real scent like a perfume. My mouth waters.
“Sorry for callin’ you names, boss,” Laine says, inches from my face, though she doesn’t sound sorry at all. Her smirk’s now a grin, and my ears flush. It’s hard to hold up this mock outrage when her warm breath slides down my throat, prickling the skin there. “But I was there that night, so I’ve got rights.” Laine hovers there for a moment, that wicked grin jacking up my heartbeat like caffeine hasn’t managed to all day. Can I drink two cups ofherevery morning? Sweet Jesus.
She points to the back. “Go on now. We’ve got work to do!”
I stumble when I stand up, accidentally kicking a bucket, an empty crate, and for some reason, thewall, on my way to the back, where we keep our coffee stash. I’ve drunk so much coffee today it tastes like water now, but I can’t tell Laine no. Not when she’s looking at me like that.
Quite troubling, really.
The blush has worked its way down my entire body, and I hate myself a little for physically responding to her casual flirting. Because I know why she’s doing this—I’m an expert in this field. This is good, old-fashionedthrow her a bonesympathy. When two people come to an understanding that,yes, we hooked up, and no, we’re not gonna do it anymore, but it’s not quite mutual? This is what happens: pity-flirting.
The rejector pity-flirts with the rejectee, and while it maylookconvincing, the message is clear:hey, maybe it could happen again! But we both know it won’t, so accept this light flirting for your bruised ego so I don’t feel bad about never wanting to see you naked again, okay? Thaaaaanks.
I’m extremely familiar. So familiar that, when Hannah first moved here, she didn’t believe me when I explained nobody in town wanted anything to do with me.
“What’re you talking about?” she’d said as Kai blew me a kiss in Das Kaffee Haus. “Everyone’s been wagging their eyebrows at you all day!”
“It’s pity-flirting, Hannah. I guess some might still find me attractive, but they’ve all had their taste—”
“A conscious word choice, here for it.”
“And chose not to have seconds or thirds andwhyam I talking about myself like I’m a meal?”
“Because society has trained us to think of women as something to be consumed.”
“Fucking society.” We’d clinked gingerbread lattes at that and carried on with our day, Hannah pointing out every instance of empty queer flirtation, and me, dryly outlining the series of unfortunate events that got me there like some sad lesbian Lemony Snicket.
Still, I can’t be angry with Laine for throwing me a bone. It’s better than the sour looks and frustrated sighs she’s doled out ever since she started working here. I just need to keep my head on straight about what it means, that’s all.
When I return, she’s busily gesturing to Tristan while he stands by, arms folded, a big frown on his face.
“I don’t know,” Tristan says, unconvinced. “Zoe doesn’t like to sweat.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” I step up to their little duo, peering between them.
Laine turns to me, her face like sunlight. “Mayor Esposito’s Field Day fundraiser is next weekend.”
“Yeah, so?” My tone turns frosty. Rachel plans the Field Day fundraiser in the mayor’s honor every year, which is a great idea, but that’s the problem—throwing an all-ages field day wasmygreat idea before Rachel stole and repackaged it as her own. She even schedules it the same weekend in spring I used to schedule mine, forcing our events into a direct head-to-head popularity contest—which I lost when she tacked on a fundraiser for Mayor Esposito. From what I hear, Rachel prances about like QueenSpandex when she’s not viciously elbowing children out of the way to win all the events.
“We should sign up as a team.”
“I’d rather drink red wine vinegar.”
“You need time to pitch to the mayor, now’s your chance. Plus, what does Rachel hate more than anything?” Laine’s smile stretches across her face, pure Grinchian connivery, and my lower belly hums in response.
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out in a rumble. “Um, losing?” I pose it like a question, but there’s no question about it. I once saw Rachel self-destruct over Candyland.
She was fifteen.
“That’s right.” Laine’s eyes shimmer like caramel in a pan—hot, sweet, sticky—as they track down my face to my mouth, then back again. “Especiallyto me. Doesn’t that sound like fun, boss?”
Laine Woods is business evil, and boy, do Ilike it. A flood of warmth streams down my spine as I feel my cheeks burn.
