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I ducked behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of water. “Fine.”
“Mack, you don’t need to be here if you—”
“I said I’m fine, Chase.” I ignored the concern in her tone, in her eyes.
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Okay. Great. You want the bar or store room?” We usually worked through both together, I guess that wasn’t happening today. Good.
“I’ll take the bar.”
“Great,” she said again and I wanted to tell her to fuck the stock count, that we needed to talk. But I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut as I watched her jump off her stool and march off, head high, shoulders stiff. Maybe she was right, maybe Saturday night had been a mistake. It sure felt like it right now.
The dish towelcame out of nowhere and slapped me in the side of the face. I really hoped it was clean.
“What the fuck?” I growled, throwing the thing onto the crate beside me.
Chase snorted from her spot on the floor and my attention landed on her. And, like it had every time I’d looked directly at her today, my stomach bottomed out like I’d just gone over the crest of a roller coaster.
I was so royally fucked.
She made an impatient sound in the back of her throat. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for five minutes. You’re lucky it was a dish towel and not a bottle.”
“Charming,” I deadpanned and she rolled her eyes. What would she say if I told her I was distracted, not only because of Saturday night but also because I could see right down her shirt and I did not need to know she had a pink bra on.
A pink bra that was hidden under her all black clothing. Black jeans with rips across both thighs, black boots made for crushing men’s skulls, and that loose fitting black shirt, knotted near her navel, giving me a very much un-needed peek at that fucking pink-lace bra.
Naturally, my mind had wandered, pondering over whether or not it was part of a matching set. My guess was no, and the mystery of whatever was on her bottom half had been driving me to distraction.
“Mack!”
“Yes—fuck—what?”
Her brows pinched, a little pucker appearing between them. “I asked if you were done with the vodka?”
I squeezed the back of my neck. No more thinking about Chase’s underwear, or the feel of her tongue in my mouth, not if I wanted to avoid a concussion when she clocked me with the closest bottle of tequila.
“Yes, done with the vodka.”
She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then closed it again. Her lips pursed as she tapped something into the iPad. It was an effort to not let my gaze fix on her mouth. I looked at a spot over her left shoulder instead. It didn’t help. I should have taken longer counting out front, not let myself be squeezed into this glorified broom closet with her and the jasmine and lime scent that was soaking my sinuses.
“You can head out, I’ll finish up,” she said, not looking at me, tension coiled tight down her neck.
“There’s still a lot to get through.”
“And I can manage it alone.” Her tone was sharp.
“I’m sure you can, but I’m not going anywhere.” I didn’t know why I was arguing when she was giving me an out… the thought of not being near her was as bad as being close.
Her shoulders rose and fell with an impatient breath. “Why don’t you just say whatever it is that you need to?”
“I don’t have anything to say.” I shifted my attention to the rum shelf and felt her step up beside me. I refused to look at her.
“You clearly have something to say about”—pause—“the other night, so go ahead and say it.”
I turned. She was close but I didn’t back up, I just leaned against the shelf like everything was fucking fine. “There’s nothing to say. It was a mistake. We’re going to act like it never happened. You don't want a relationship with me. That about sums it up, right?” The words were bitter, caustic on my tongue.
“Mack,” she all but whispered, her tough facade cracking. I did my best to hold onto my anger, I really did, but how could I when she was looking at me like that? Dark eyes wide and pleading. God I wanted to kiss her again.
“I’d never throw you away, Chase.”
