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Chapter 2: Lilah
Well, hell. That was embarrassing. I've been telling Terry for weeks that stupid mat keeps rolling up on one corner. We've all tripped on it at least once, but he's too cheap to deal with it. I'd be pleased about destroying it with pickle juice, but he'll probably just force one of us to hose it down out back.
What really ticks me off is that I wouldn't have even tripped if it wasn't for the hot-as-hell man sitting in the corner. I could practically feel his eyes on me when I came out of the kitchen. He looked at me like he could eat me whole.
Even now, back at his table with the winery douchebags, I can still feel him watching me through his dark-rimmed glasses. God, I love a man in glasses. He's sipping his whiskey, trying not to be obvious about it but failing catastrophically. Some of the other guys at his table are less subtle. Boy-Band Hair literally wiggled his eyebrows at me. Barf. That guy has a seriously punchable face.
I wonder why Ben is even here with those assholes. The guys in suits have cringe-worthy Jersey accents, but Ben sounds Southern and he couldn't look more different if he tried. He's wearing worn jeans and a tight gray t-shirt. His hair is sandy brown and though it's short on the sides, it's longer on top, tousled and curly. He looks so damn touchable. He holds the old-fashioned glass in his enormous hand, swirling it with the single oversized ice cube before bringing it to his full lips. I imagine what those lips would feel like on my body and I'm wracked by a full body shiver.
He seemed into me but obviously, my imagination is running wild because nothing says sexy like a clumsy woman with a bloody hand, covered in pickle juice. I'll probably never get the smell out of my shoes; I realize with a sigh. On the bright side, I bet I could market it as man repellent. Just bottle up tiny jars of cardamom sweet pickles with a label that reads "smash in case of unwanted male attention."
"How's the finger, Lilah?"
Speaking of... a voice from right behind me sends chills crawling up my spine, nearly making me drop the glass I've been wiping down. Here we fucking go again. My boss is looking me up and down, leaning back against the bar. I'd bet a hundred bucks he thinks he looks cool. Spoiler alert, it just makes him look shorter and more weaselly.
"It's fine, thanks," I say shortly, trying to make it clear I don't want to keep talking. He doesn't take the hint. Shocker.
"Listen," he says, pressing his thin lips together, "those pickles were really expensive--"
"Take them out of my paycheck," I tell him as I aggressively shake a gin fizz. The ice in the cocktail shaker is deafening, but that doesn't stop him. He crosses his arms and slides in closer to me.
"Oh, don’t worry about it. I can cover it. I just thought maybe you would want to go out for dinner sometime."
I glare at him. "Then why would you bring up the cost of the pickles at all? Sorry, but it sounds like you, as my manager, are trying to blackmail me into a date with you because I dropped three jars of awful pickles. But that can't be right, because surely you know that would give me grounds to sue for sexual harassment."
He looks at me, mouth gaping like a dying fish. I don't know why he thought that would work. Sidestepping a still-silent Terry, I get back to work.
I don't need this shit. Literally, I don't need any of it. If the thought of using my trust fund didn’t make me so insanely uncomfortable, I would walk out of here and go live on a tropical island all by myself. I could lay on the beach all damn day without a care in the world. Despite my desire to support myself without using Grandpa’s money, I don’t think I can take this job much longer.
Making a mental note to send the owner of the bar an email citing hostile work environments, I hand the gin fizz off to a woman wearing at least five pounds of jewelry. She clings to the man she's with as he slides me a $20 and tells me to keep the change. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ben following the group of winery guys outside. He doesn't even look back as he steps through the door, and I shouldn't be disappointed. It's not like he owes me anything.
I take another drink order but before I can finish making it; I see a hand tap-tap-tap on the counter and I look up into the most beautiful chocolate brown eyes. The breath whooshes out of me as Ben grins at me, leaning one elbow on the bar between two women who do not seem to mind the way he's encroaching on their personal space. I think I just caught one of them yanking her top a little lower.
"What are you doing tomorrow?" he drawls.
"Sleeping in," I answer blissfully. "I have one day off a week and I like to use it wisely by sleeping until noon."
"Could I take you to brunch after you wake up?"
I freeze, mouth open, hanging on the precipice of something scary, because a part of me really wants to say yes. He seems sweet, but what do I really know about him? Nothing! He could be a super charming serial killer for all I know. He could be setting the trap with his devastating good looks and raw sex appeal.
I mean, that's not likely, is it? But my mom thought my father was a sweetheart and all it got her was a gold-digging scumbag of a husband.
"Ah... thanks for the offer, but I don't think I can," I squeak. Before my brain can catch up with my dumbass mouth, I blurt out, "but maybe another time."
Ben grins at me, unfazed, and for a second I wonder if he even heard me turn him down. "I'd like that. See you around, Lilah."
I try to ignore the way the women watch him as he taps his fingers on the bar and grins at me as he leaves. My brain is patting itself on the back for getting out of a date with Ben, but the land down under is planning a mutiny in my skirt. Tamping down my irritation, I offer the two women a free drink. Anything to distract them from watching Ben's tight rear end walk out the front door.
I'm still thinking about Ben and his glorious ass when I walk into my new home at 2am. This has been the longest damn day of my life. You'd think I would have had the foresight to request the entire day off, but I didn't realize how exhausting moving would be. It's not like I had to move a bunch of furniture. Most of the big stuff in the apartment was my roommate’s, and my brothers moved the heavy stuff for me. All I had to worry about were my clothes, some bathroom stuff, and my tortoise, Frankie.
The move still took hours longer than I thought it would, and I barely made it in for my shift this evening. And then the pickles and Ben... I showered, but I can still smell the pickles on me. I wish I smelled like Ben instead. Just the thought of him makes me wish all kinds of dirty things.
