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Soft music echoes in the hall as I step through the employee door. I squint at the overhead lights as I reach the main floor. Scrunch my nose at the artificial lemon-scented cleaner in the air. I don’t mind most cleaning product scents, but whoever decided this one was lemon is sorely mistaken.
I take a deep breath and enter the office. My brave face falls when I discover it is empty. I release my held breath and stow my purse in the desk drawer. Then I set off in search of Micah.
I exit the office, the click of my heels loud on the concrete. Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound thunderous compared to the music in the main room. The hall shrinks and my footsteps slow. At the end of the hall, I stop and scan every square foot of the club. It takes seconds to spot Micah.
Micah is across the room with his back aimed this way. He shuffles tables around and sets up the various games and events. Leaning on the wall, I observe him a moment. Take him in while his attention is elsewhere. Study the flex of his arms. Rake my eyes down his broad shoulders, defined back, and firm glutes. Call me piggish, but I want to enjoy this blip in time. To ogle the man without him giving me a ration of shit for doing so.
Then, I take a breath. Sooner than desirable, I shut the moment down and snap back to reality. Time to work.
“Hey,” I say as I waltz in his direction.
He spins around, eyes me head to toe, and flashes me with the best smile. A smile I haven’t seen in weeks. And I can’t help but return it. Micah licks his bottom lip and I swallow.
“About finished with setup. If you want to lay out the beer pong cups.” Micah points to a nearby banquet table.
I lay out the cups and set the balls in a bowl at each end. We don’t fill the cups until people start playing. And the cups are changed out between each player rotation. Health code and all.
It isn’t long before Roar fills with countless bodies. The deejay now takes requests on Thursday nights and plays upbeat music between those songs. Bar Olympics night—along with the other new themed days—has only been going for two weeks and already brings in a decent crowd. Roar easily makes double profits on Thursday nights since we changed it up. Adding fresh ideas was a smart business move for Ani and Sean. Each night continues to bring in new faces.
On the nights Micah and I both work, we trade off who gets paperwork duty. It eases me into my new role, but gives us the chance to not stare at a computer monitor and rows of numbers all night. The monotony of filling in spreadsheets, filing paperwork, writing schedules, and updating payroll doesn’t bog me down. At times, I enjoy the simplicity and repetition. But hours later, my eyes grow weary. My mind a bit sluggish.
I tap Micah on the shoulder and he turns, giving me his starry gaze. A brilliant smile plumps his cheeks and brightens the room. And once again, I question whether or not kissing him last night was smart. Too late now. Turning back time only exists in fiction. Now, I just put one foot in front of the other and trek forward.
“I’m doing rounds, then going in the office.”
Micah steps forward, stopping inches from me, close enough to touch without effort. And I forget how to breathe.
Son of a bitch. Breathe, Peyton. Deep breath in. Then exhale.
I inhale a deep breath, doing my damnedest to keep the action undetectable, and shuffle back an inch. But it’s too late. The scent of his sweet cologne hits my nose and the room goes foggy. I beg my legs to move, my feet to carry me away from him, but nothing happens. My legs grow heavy and bury themselves deep in the earth like tree roots.
I am so screwed.
Perspiration slicks my skin and I send a silent prayer to the air conditioning gods, pleading for the cool air to kick on. Micah locks me in place with his magnetic eyes; the gold flecks sparkling with more intensity. I want to look away. I want to flee to the office and use the brick walls and industrial metal door as a barricade.
But I can’t. Breaking eye contact feels impossible. A fool’s errand.
Neither of us says a word, but I need space. And air. Air that doesn’t smell of Micah and desire. I clear my throat and he blinks as if I woke him.
“I’m going to…” I circle my finger in the air and step around him.
One, two, three steps and I take a breath. A burst of cool air hits me, clears some of the Micah-induced fog, and allows me to think clearly. I take another breath and drop my shoulder, thinking I’m home free. Then a hand grips my bicep.
Without looking, I know whose hand is secured around my arm. Every sensory organ in my body alerts me to Micah’s proximity. Even through the hate-filled years, I was aware of all things Micah Reed. Always.
I peek over my shoulder and flash my best work smile. “What’s up?”
A tingle ripples from his touch down to my fingers and up my shoulder, neck, and chest. I conjure up any and every thought to distract me from the sensation. Public bathrooms, cottage cheese, scooping the litter box as a kid. And it works… until his grip loosens and his fingers traipse down my bicep, my forearm, my wrist. Then he steps into me again. Invades every molecule of air within breathing distance.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
Why must this be so difficult? Why am I torturing myself? For what?
It would be so easy. To take his hand in mine. Lace our fingers together and curl them tight. To feel the callouses on his warm skin as he strokes my thumb with the pad of his. To get lost in euphoria as sparks travel from my fingertips, my forearm, up and across my chest, to coil around my heart.
Believe me, I want to hold his hand. Want him so close, all I see and feel and breathe is him.
Should I, though? Let him invade me completely. Should I jump back in without reservation? My subconscious screams to slow down and use the time to learn more about Micah and the years we didn’t know each other. Meanwhile, my heart beats erratically and begs me to cave. To give in to my desires; come what may.
Argh!
“Thank you,” he says and steps closer.
My skin buzzes under his touch. God, I want to feel him everywhere. “For what?” I rasp, then swallow.
Get ahold of yourself, Peyton.
“Last night.” A finger draws small circles over my pulse and I fight the urge to close my eyes. If he picks up on my galloping heart rate, he doesn’t let on. “It may not have meant much to some, but it meant the world to me.”
I will myself to respond. Tell my brain to part my lips and let the words flow freely. But nothing happens. My lips go on lockdown as I stare foolishly at Micah. When I manage to string words together, I sound like a bumbling idiot.
“Yeah. Sure. No problem.”
What the hell is wrong with me?
