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I’m angry at myself for leaving.
So I make a U-turn and hope a police officer didn’t just see that, and then I deal with all the honking horns as I make my way back to the record store. I race into the parking lot, fuming like a spoiled child who didn’t get her dessert. Fumbling with the key to unlock the door, I yank it open and step inside.
It’s irrational, I know, but I’m still angry because I don’t know what I did that was so wrong. I sat on the counter facing him, and sure, I moved his hand to my thigh, but that was because I wanted him to know that I was giving him permission to touch me. What I didn’t do was force him to run his thumb over my panties.
Just when he was giving up control, he pulled back.
I was left wanting.
I had a small taste of what it would be like to be with a man like Cash, and I didn’t want to give it up. I don’t want this to be the end.
The storefront is empty, Cash isn’t behind the counter, and I can see down the hallway that he’s not in the back either. Footsteps on the stairs alert me to his presence. I watch as he descends the stairs from his loft. He has a weary look on his face, and I wonder if he has that expression because I’m standing in the middle of his store, staring at him with my fists clenched, or if it’s something else.
“Am I fired?” I blurt out.
The stunned look on his face turns to confusion.
He knits his brows together. “No. But I don’t think you should work here anymore.” He shakes his head wearily.
“Kinda sounds like you’re firing me,” I shoot back.
He rubs the back of his neck and pieces of blonde hair fall into his eyes as he lowers his head.
“I’m not, it’s just…” he pauses, struggling for words.
“It’s just, what?” I prompt him. “You owe me the truth. What is holding you back?”
“You’re young,” he finally says.
“I’m twenty-three, Cash. Sure, that might be young compared to you, but it doesn’t mean I’m stupid or naive.” I blink at him.
“You’re not stupid,” he confirms. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
He leans against the railing to the stairs and folds his arms over his chest.
“Then what does age have to do with anything? It shouldn’t matter.”
“It matters to me!” he says angrily.
“You’re using my age an excuse,” I fire back, and notice a slight tick in his jaw.
“It’s not an excuse.” He pushes off from the railing and walks down the few remaining steps into the small space of the store. On either side of me are record bins which he uses as a barrier between us.
“You work for me. Isn’t that enough for you?” Frustration laces his voice.
I purse my lips, staring at the little blonde hairs that line his jaw and find myself wanting to know what they feel like against my inner thighs. The attraction is palpable, but it’s not enough for him to take what he wants.
I want to know what he’s so afraid of.
“I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t Corporate America.” I motion to the small space of the record store, with its dingy floors, vintage records, and classic guitars lining the wall. “You’re not violating a sexual harassment policy.”
His eyes narrow at me as if I’ve hit a nerve because he’s running out of excuses.
“I shouldn’t have touched you,” he finally grits out.
I challenge him with my eyes and his stormy grey’s flare in response.
“Not here, and not in the way I just did.” I watch his lips as he continues, “With my fingers playing at the edge of your panties,” he says and I feel like a fly caught in a web, transfixed as he recounts exactly how he touched me, “making yousowet for me.”
