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She wants to do things on her own, which only makes me admire her more, and I’m not used to women rejecting my kindness. Normally, they take everything they can get and then some, indulging in the alpha until he grows tired and kicks them to the curb, but not her. Not Jessa.
One of the main reasons I haven’t dated in years is that I get bored easily, like I’m forcing the fun, forcing conversation. With Jessa, though, things are effortless. I feel like myself, whoever he is after years of being an uptight restaurant owner.
Would I tire of her eventually? There's no way to know for sure, but a strong, deep-seated feeling in my gut says no.
Jessa isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met, and I’m constantly in awe of her. I’m always amazed, more attracted to her spitfire attitude and pouty lips, which makes the sting of her rejection ache that much more.
I’m the first one to the restaurant, which isn't out of the norm, and I slip into my familiar routine opening the restaurant. I turn on the computers and flip on the fryer vats so they can heat up by the time the cooks arrive. I fill the freezer with ice, open the registers, and turn on the lights before the first cook even walks through the door.
Then, I take up my place at the bar and wait for my shift to begin.
Regular faces greet me, and I put on my typical charming smile, the fake one I’ve curated over the years, the one people have come to expect every time they sit down at my restaurant. It’s part of the theatrics, a ploy to seem sociable. After all, who would want to go to a restaurant owned by a grouchy old asshole?
Not me, but the front I put on isn’t me either. Not the Alessandro I used to be.
The thought dwells in my mind as the day goes on, as people sit in front of me and spill their concerns and thoughts and achievements. I celebrate with them like always, offer a listening ear to those who need it, and even pour an extra shot for a guy going through a divorce.
It’s all a charade, a masquerade I’ve grown used to over the years, and as the day drags on, I find myself waiting impatiently for the one woman who’s been able to shake up that routine.
Like clockwork, she rolls through the front door a few minutes before four, and I can already sense her. I don’t have to see her high ponytail or her pale pink lips as she walks across the dining room. I don’t have to smell the floral body spray clinging to her skin. I just know she’s there, and by the time I spot her, she’s heading for the bar.
I pretend to be busy, relining a set of whiskey glasses beneath the bar, waiting until she speaks before I look up again.
“Hey,” she says, dipping her head to catch my attention.
“Good afternoon. How was your appointment?” I ask politely, keeping any emotion out of my voice. Professional, considerate, the way a boss should be.
“It went well.” She’s beaming, her eyes bright and her perfectly full lips curled into a grin, and I can’t help but wonder what’s put her in such a good mood.Surely not the doctor’s office.“I got my meds taken care of, grabbed some lunch, and then walked around the block a few times.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I answer robotically. I’m curious to know if she regrets not taking me up on my offer, but I’m too proud to ask. My instincts also say she couldn't be bothered, especially considering how chipper she is.
“You were right, you know,” she carries on, leaning against the bar and dropping her voice low.
I want to appear uninterested, but I lean in closer anyway, unable to fight her magnetic pull. She’s constantly drawing me to her, making me want to close the distance between us, even if it’s just for one of her corny jokes.
“About?”
“I should have taken you up on your offer last night.” She nods, reaching for the side of her neck. “I have a crick that won’t go away now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Although it might sound like it, I’m not patronizing her. I’m sorry she’s uncomfortable. I wonder how she’ll make it all shift carrying heavy platters of food with a sore neck, but there’s nothing I can do about it besides offer her a pain reliever.
If we were somewhere else, preferably alone, I might offer to rub it for her, and before I can stop myself, I’m imagining my hands around her throat, coated in oil, how they’d dance down her shoulders, diving further south.
Finally, I clear my throat and go back to straightening the glasses that are already in a perfect row.
“Maybe you can rub it out for me later.” My eyes dart up again to find her smirking, and a curious heat creeps up my skin, making me sweat.
Is she flirting? Or just joking around?
Given how confusing she’s been over the last few days, I have no idea what to think, but I need to figure this out quickly. Otherwise, I might take it the wrong way. I might corner her in the office and try to kiss her when she’s really just trying to be funny, and that’s not a police report I want to deal with.
“I guess that’s up to you,” I say cautiously, cursing the way my cock twitches at the thought. “Maybe if you ask nicely.”
Her bottom lip slips between her teeth, and she chews at it, staring up at me with her bright, doe eyes as my gaze drops to her mouth. I wish this bar wasn’t in my way; I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to kiss her, to push my tongue past her lips and taste her until she’s breathless.
I immediately look away, mumbling something about her getting to work as I shake my head to try to empty it of the filthy thoughts creeping up.
Fuck my life.
