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Cash leans over the table so that he’s right in my face. His words are full of grit as he says, “Stop fucking with me, Caroline.”
I freeze to the spot, momentarily entranced at his closeness. His woodsy scent.
If only he knew I am not fucking with him. If only he knew how tempted I am to lean forward the barest inch, and lick that scruff that peppers his angled jaw.
Instead, with my pulse roaring in my ears, I reply, “See that? You also know how to talk through your teeth in just the right way to make a woman open her legs to you.”
Cash’s nostrils flare, then he turns around and leaves, pushing a little too hard at the shop door.
For a savvy businessman, Cash is pretty dumb.
* * *
The big fishfry at Gretchen and Matthew’s house is tonight, and I stand in front of the mirror, examining my outfit.
I’ve chosen it carefully because I know Cash will be there, and I want to make him insane. It’s no less than he deserves.
After our little disagreement yesterday, he didn’t show up to the bait shop, and I was sad not to see him. My word count suffered, too, damn him.
And then, this morning, Cash stumbled into the shop looking like he’d been to hell and back. Bloodshot eyes, unshaven neck, and ornerier than three people. Whew.
“You drank the last of the coffee. Again,” he croaked.
“Well, I would’ve made a fresh pot, but you told me to leave it alone,” I said.
“When?”
“The first day we met,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but that moment was burned into my brain forever.”
After letting his sleepy eyes take in my outfit of the day—bike shorts and a concert tee-shirt with the neckband cut out—he sullenly and silently made another pot of coffee and slinked back to the repair shop.
He never bothered to come back to get his coffee, so I poured him a cup and walked it over, setting it on the workbench. He barely rasped out a “thank you,” and we returned to work.
Tonight’s a party, and although I know there will be a campfire, beer, and people in mostly jeans and tee shirts, I decide to go with something pretty and feminine. A pretty cotton summer dress that’s a little swishy on the bottom but with a snug waist and a sweetheart neckline—this is perfect. I feel pretty and comfy, and I might wear it on any given day, no matter the occasion.
When I show up to the party, the first thing I hear at the beer cooler is, “Why are you giving medical advice to my mom?”
I slowly extract my bottle of Two-Hearted Ale, then turn around to find Cash standing there with his arms crossed over his chest.
Okay, fine. I don’t turn around. I twirl. Because…pretty dress, duh!
“What are you talking about?”
“Mom said you told her to get her thyroid checked. Why are you poking your nose in her problems?”
Is he serious right now?
“Because she complained about being tired and feeling run down,” I say.
“That’s none of your business.”
I tilt my head. “But we’re friends. I’ve told her all about how my parents gambling habits and how they used to disappear for days at a time when I was only nine years old. Things I don’t normally tell people unless they genuinely care about me. And, I care about your mom, so it was just a suggestion.”
He squints at me, processing the information I just dumped on him. “I … didn’t know that about you.”
“I’m an open book.”For you anyway, Cash.“What do you want to know? All you have to do is ask.”
His eyes rake over my body and spend an inordinately long time on my cleavage.
