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She looks from me to the cash, and back to me.
“I don’t have change for that, Emmett.”
I love the way she says my name. Even when she says it with anger, clearly annoyed with me. The sassy side of her is sexy as hell.
“I don’t need change,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
Aubrey probably isn’t the type of girl that will be impressed with my money, but I’m doing it for a few more reasons than that.
One, I knew it would annoy her. Two, I’m hoping she’s working because she’s planning on moving out of her parents and getting away from that church.
“You can’t tip that much,” she says, finally yanking her hands free from my grasp.
The bag with my sandwich nearly drops to the ground in the process.
“I’m pretty sure there are no rules that say I can’t tip as much as I want. Tips are supposed to be based on service. And you, Aubrey, have given me excellent service.”
She folds her arms across her chest and her shirt rides up just the tiniest bit, showing a small sliver of skin above the waistband of her jeans. My eyes lock onto the few faint freckles I can see near her left hip bone. My mouth salivates and I lick my lips. An idea, probably a bad one, springs to mind and I take action before I can chicken out.
I reach forward with the money and tuck it slowly into the front pocket of her jeans, my knuckles brushing against her exposed skin. Aubrey lets out a small gasp, but she doesn’t move, and her eyes never leave mine.
“Thank you, gorgeous, for the excellent service. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and turn on my heel and head into the barn.
I’m nearly back to the couch when she shouts from behind me, “What is that supposed to mean?”
I don’t even turn around, I just call over my shoulder, “Have a great day, gorgeous.”
Chapter fourteen
Aubrey
Wheredoeshegetthe nerve? And what did he mean,“see you tomorrow”? I’m still mumbling to myself by the time I finish my first round of deliveries and come walking back into the shop for more. I’m so stuck in my head that I don’t even notice Bea has stopped whatever she was doing and is standing there, staring at me.
“Annoying customer?” she asks.
“Very,” I say, brushing my hand through my hair before checking the addresses on the next round of orders.
I don’t say any more because I know she and Emmett are friends.
“These next orders are easy ones. All right here on Main Street,” she says.
I nod, still too busy thinking about my interaction with Emmett. Thinking about how when his skin brushed the skin of my stomach, it sent a wave of tingles through my entire body.
“It may not be my place, as your boss, but I’m gonna ask anyway because you’ve seemed distracted all day. Is everything okay at home?”
I look away from the orders toward her and she has genuine concern on her face. The genuine look still isn’t enough for me to tell her why I’m distracted right now, but she’s right. I haven’t been in a good headspace all day.
After Mom and Dad dropped their bomb on me yesterday–church went about how I expected. We sat as a family next to the Hills. Thomas and I squished in the middle between our parents on the bench seat.
Thomas istwenty-two years old, with brown hair he keeps cut short like most of the men in the church. He’s tall, extraordinarily skinny, and walks hunched over at his shoulders. I have never once looked at him and felt anything or even thought anything other than about how horrible his posture is. We sat in silence, our parents doing the talking before and after Pastor Johnson’s sermon.
To my absolute horror–but again, no surprise–Pastor Johnson announced our courting during his sermon and even drove home what Mom had told me… they expect a wedding in eight weeks.
When this announcement was made, Thomas looked at me and smiled and it took a lot of effort to give him a tight-lipped smile back. When all I really wanted was to run to the bathroom to throw up and curl into a ball and cry. But–there’s no time for tears. My plans for getting away–leaving the church and my parents–just got put on a rush timeline. The new urgency is why I didn’t fight Emmett as hard as I should have on his exorbitant tip. What college kid has that kind of money, anyway? And does he live in that barn? So many unanswered questions.
“Bea–would I be able to put you down as a reference for renting an apartment?” I ask. “I read that sometimes references help your application chances.”
Bea squints at me and tilts her head.
