“Anything stronger?”
I guess so. I’m not risking it, though. “How old are you?”
“Take a girl out first before you start asking invasive questions, sir.”
“I wasn’t. I—” I clear my throat. “I jus?—”
“Relax. I’m just joking. I’m twenty-two, perfectly legal to drink, and tequila sounds about perfect right now.”
Damn, tequila. “I don’t have any. Sorry.”
“You look like you’re gonna throw up. Relax. It’s fine. I’ll go into town tomorrow and grab some. Can I have water then? I’m not a beer girly.”
I open the fridge, grabbing a bottle to hand her. Twenty-two years old—you hear that, dick? Stay put. Too young, your boss, and now your neighbor? Nope.
I need to find a way to keep my distance, though, because erasing the image of her perfect body will be hard enough; add her floral scent to that, and her blue eyes that look sad beyond measure, and I’m fucked.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the water.
She finishes the rest of her sandwich in silence. Most people might not be comfortable with it, but I don’t mind. After working in a fast-paced environment where everyone was always talking or yelling, where there was always something that needed done, moving out here has been good for my soul. It took time to get adjusted to the slow pace, but after I found the peace that comes with it, there was no going back.
“Do you like it out here?” she asks.
“I do.”
“Do you like working with Arnie?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes open wider, a slight tint kissing her cheeks. “No ma’am, please. Just Riley.”
“Yes, ma— I mean, yes.” I clear my throat again. Fuck. I’m not going there. Not going there. Not. Going. There.
She narrows her eyes, hopping down from the chair with a wince, and takes the plate to the sink. I grab it from her before she has a chance to attempt to clean it. “I got it.”
“You saved me and made me dinner. It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s not a problem. And you shouldn’t get that hand wet tonight.” I point to her hand covered in toothpaste.
She lifts it. “Yup, makes sense. Well, it’s getting late.”
“It is,” I reply.
“I'd better get going.”
My nod is the only answer she needs.
“Alright! Have a good night,” she shouts, limping to the door. She didn’t bring shoes here. What am I thinking?
“Let me carry you home.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Your foot is covered in toothpaste, and you have no shoes.”
“So?”
“So, respectfully, I’m picking you up.” I do. In one swoop, she’s in my arms, and I carry her back to her place. No words are shared between us, but again, the silence feels comfortable, as if we’ve known each other for a long time.
