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I think I’m beginning to like her.
I push off from the wall. “If you can start now, we’ll sort out the details later.”
“Weren’t you in a ?90s band?” she asks, not waiting for my answer as she finishes. “I just trashed your genre and you’re offering me a job?”
“A trial period,” I clarify, ignoring her question. “If you work out, then all the better.”
She looks at me excitedly with those not-so-innocent brown eyes.
“I can’t pay much,” I clarify, “and it would only be part time,” I add.
“That’s fine.”
“Okay,” I say awkwardly.
For some reason, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now as we stand in the middle of the boxes. She looks at me for direction.
I place my hand at the back of my neck but then remember the box cutter, so I hand it to her. She kneels down again and starts to rip open another box.
“Have you ever worked in a record store before?” It’s probably something I should have asked before hiring her.
She looks up at me, blowing the loose hair from her face. “No, but I’ve worked in a few bars.”
She must be able to read the confusion on my face and adds, “I’m pretty good with people.” She cocks her head to the side and looks at me.
“That’s debatable.” I throw her own words back at her, and she purses her lips at me.
“Touché’.” She rises up on those long legs of hers.
“At least in a record store I won’t have to deal with anyone trying to grab my ass.” She smirks absently, moving the box with her foot so she can make room.
I’m no stranger to assholes in the music business, and I’ve been witness to a lot of unsavory stuff, but the thought of someone touching her prickles at my skin.
“I can guarantee that won’t happen here,” I reassure her.
“Oh,” she says, biting her lip.
Fuck.I rub the back of my neck, wondering if I made the right decision to hire her. I look down the hallway so I have something to do besides stare at her.
I notice the Jeep in the parking lot. “Is that yours?”
She follows my line of sight. “Yeah. I hope I didn’t park in the wrong spot,” she says. “There wasn’t one that said ‘employee of the month’,” she jokes.
I ignore her little joke and instead tell her, “I wouldn’t leave your camera in there.”
She wrinkles her forehead. “What makes you think I have my camera in my car?”
I dismiss her question because I’ve been around artistic people practically my whole life. When a physical object is part of your art form, you usually carry it with you. “This isn’t a great neighborhood. I wouldn’t want it to get stolen.”
She narrows her eyes at me and then walks down the hallway. The bell rings above the door as she exits. I wait for her up front, watching as she leans into the open car door and grabs the camera case from the floorboard. Moments later, when she comes back in, I point to the space under the counter in front of me for her to store it.
I move out of the way so she can tuck it onto the shelf.
“Jack used to sleep with his guitar,” I muse. “Had it tucked under the blankets and everything.” I laugh silently at the memory.
She straightens back up and levels me those beautiful brown eyes.
“What did you sleep with?” she asks, not so innocently.
