Page 21 of Under Pressure

Surely, she knew that.

“I’ll let that pass this time,” I start, stroking the rubber gloves with my knuckle before pinching them and pulling them to rest against my thigh. “But next time, I want you to tell me something aboutyou.”

“That was about me.”

“Not completely.”

She flicks her eyes away and glares at the first of two ovens. When she looks back at me, it’s with her emotions tucked safelyaway, completely hidden. “I’ll be back with more dishes for you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” I drone, smirking.

With a soft huff, she leaves, and I watch her every step of the way, completely infatuated with her.

Yeah . . . stalker seems like a pretty spot-on description.

9

I expectedhim to leave after a few minutes of washing the dishes.

Talk about a miscalculation on my part.

Instead of growing annoyed with every new delivery of dirty dishes, he simply watched them fall into the sink and scrubbed away without a care in the world. The hours pass at a snail’s pace. With every pull of the drain, I’d get my hopes up, only to watch him refill the sink and squirt far too much soap into the clean water. The bubbles only serve as a reminder that he doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon.

If he were anyone else, I wouldn’t have cared. He’s offering mefreelabour, after all. I’d be a pretty shitty business owner to turn that down, especially when washing dishes is a task I absolutely detest. Even just thinking about the floaties in the water makes me want to hack.

Then again, is it technically free labour when he’s using this as an opportunity to ask me personal questions?

I’ve dodged them pretty well, but he’s stubborn. Maybe even more so than I am. The topic of my dating history isn’t anything I’m going to open up to him about right now, if ever, so once again, I dodge hislatest inquiry.

“I let you get away with too many non-answers, Quinny. If you tell me something real this time, I won’t ask another question.”

I search his face for any hint of deception, but he’s being honest. That’s . . . nice, I guess.

Wiping my hands down the front of my apron, I jerk my head in a quick nod. “Fine. But you need to ask something else.”

“Alright. Why a coffee shop?”

“Why baseball?” I counter sharply, hating how exposed the simple question has me feeling.

He pulls his hands from the water, and I watch as water drips from the rubber gloves to the growing puddle on the floor. There’s an openness to his relaxed expression that intrigues me as much as it intimidates me. I couldn’t imagine being so unbothered about sharing things about myself with someone I hardly know.

“I love baseball. It’s what I’ve always been good at. I like the way I feel while I’m on the field and I’ve got a ball in my hands.”

“It’s that simple for you?”

“It doesn’t need to be complicated. I’ve found something I enjoy doing, and it just so happens that I’m also fantastic at it. Why would I want to do anything else?”

I jab my tongue into my cheek, rolling the words around in my head. He’s looking so boldly at me that it becomes a battle not to run away before he peels the skin right off my face. There’s something pressing down on my chest, and I shift beneath it, my shoes scuffing the floor.

“I’ve loved coffee for a long time. It was an important part of my life growing up. I don’t expect you to understand that, but I don’t want to get any deeper into it.”

“Fair enough.”

He turns back to the sink and dips his hands back into the water. The bubbles rise to the top of the gloves, and I wince, knowing full well what it feels like when water breaches them. Wet fingers seem to be the last thing on his mind, though.

Shoulders loose, he finds a cup and starts washing out the inside. I stand frozen in place for a moment longer, waiting to see if he says anything else, but he remains silent. Relief settles me, and I take a deep breath before making for the door.

The moment I reach it, I linger, my teeth grinding together with a sudden wave of frustration that I can’t ignore. It’s not aimed at him, either. This is all me.