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If naps didn’t make me feel worse, I’d get up at the ass crack of dawn, put my clothes in the wash, make breakfast, hang out with Daniel until opening time, put my clothes in the dryer, pass out for a few hours, get up again and go to work. Easy.
Pulling my pillow over my face, I whisper-scream into it.
Why the fuck can’t I just switch shifts now and again?
Chef’s voice rings in my ears, “find a job in someone else’s kitchen.”
It’s crazy to even consider giving up my place at The Parlor. It’s a job any chef would kill for, let alone one fresh out of culinary school. I can’t just quit.
Can I?
Not for a guy. That isn’t a good enough reason.
But it isn’t the only reason. I’ve been miserable since the beginning but never wanted to admit it to myself.
Because what good does it do? I’m not going to quit. For one, I need a job. And two, I’ll never find a better one. Not until I have sufficient experience anyway.
I sigh and roll onto my side. A second later an arm hooks around my waist and pulls me to the center of the bed. “What’s wrong?” his sleep-worn voice grumbles behind me.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Daniel pulls me closer surrounding me in his warmth.
I’d be content to live right here. In his arms. Hell, if I told him how much I hated my job, he’d probably tell me to quit and move in with him. I practically live here already.
As much as I like the idea of living the domestic life with him, that isn’t how I want it to happen. Out of obligation because I couldn’t afford my own place anymore.
No. I’ll just tough it out. Learn to like it.
Even though I rarely get to sleep in it, I made my bed—with my job and Daniel—I have to make it work.
∞∞∞
DANIEL
One more day. Then Riley will be off and we can finally be together for more than a few stolen minutes in the morning and even fewer sleep-drunk minutes at night.
Even though my shop is still well-stocked, I sit at the wheel and throw a ball of clay on the spinning platter.
Cupping my wet hands around the ball, I squeeze letting the excess spin away as I pull the mound into a pillar. Once the clay is centered, I begin shaping the pot. My hands, coated in slip, float over the walls I raise into the bulbous belly of what will make a pretty nice pitcher.
“Is it weird to be jealous of a lump of clay?”
I start at the sound of Riley’s voice from the doorway. Luckily, I don’t collapse the pot.
“Riley. What are you doing up?” How long has she been standing there?
She leans her shoulder against the door jamb. “I can’t do this another day. I practically live with you and never see you. We haven’t said more than a couple of paragraphs to each other in a week. I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
Fuck. It seems like it’s been months, not days since I’ve had more than a few seconds to just look at her. As she stands there wearing my T-shirt, the one she’s claimed as her own, the front of my sweatpants grow tighter reminding me of what I’ve been missing the last few nights she’s come home later than usual.
“Can I watch?” she asks.
Shifting in my seat trying to mask the bulge in my lap, I gesture to the couch against the wall opposite my desk. “Have a seat.”
I fully intend on getting right back to my work but I can’t take my eyes off of her.
