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“It was just dinner; that’s all,” I quickly blurt out, wondering why I’m suddenly so concerned with making sure he knows I didn’t sleep with Noah and he can stop slamming things around the bar before he breaks something. “He’s too nice. Which is fine! Nice is great! Ilovenice people! But you’re right; definitely not my type.”
Jesus, shut up, Sidney!
The corner of Ford’s mouth tips up, and all the muscles in his body that were clenched tight while he looked back and forth between me and Noah are relaxed again. Like I really did put him at ease with my stupid word vomit. Which is just ridiculous, and I’m clearly imagining things, because I’m working on three hours of sleep and obviously out of my mind right now.
“Can we focus on work, please?” I huff.
Ford finally pulls his eyes away from Noah to look at me again, and I kind of wish he hadn’t. There’s something different about him this year. Something…moreabout the way he looks at me. His eyes always do a quick sweep of me whenever he sees me to make sure I’m all in one piece, but when I got to work earlier, his eyes lingered. They took in every inch of me from my head to my feet, and they particularly took their time on my legs.
I actually had a moment of insanity where I was happy Callie made me wear these fucking shoes.
And those eyes of his just kept on lingering as I moved around the bar, waiting on people, and he never turned away when I would catch them on a glance. Like he wanted me to see something in them. It was unsettling. It made me want to squeeze my eyes closed and refuse to look like I do whenever anyone forces me into a haunted house. And it also made me want to stare and stare, trying to figure him out, trying to read his mind, wondering why I felt hot all over every time he looked at me this way, when I turned this shit off a long time ago.
“Tell me why you’re mad at me first.”
Ford uncrosses his arms and steps closer to me, until I have to tip my head back to look up at him. Ofcoursehe had to wear a flannel today. All that soft, plaid cotton stretched tight over his muscles just makes me want to wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face in his chest so I can breathe him in. I hate being mad at him. It makes my stomach hurt. But every memory of each time I’ve woken up on November 1st and Ford was just…gone… flashes through my head and kicks my anger up a few notches.
“I’m not mad at you,” I lie, just wanting to get back to work and stop thinking about how much he jumbles my brain.
“Well, you’re mad atsomething. You’ve been stomping around here for the last forty minutes, muttering under your breath. And since you keep aiming those beautiful, pissed-off eyes in my direction, I’m gonna assume it’s me.”
My brain slams on its brakes until all I can hear in my head is the squealing of tires.
Has he ever called any part of me beautiful before? No. No, he most certainly has not. Cute, sometimes adorable, and usually accompanied by a grunt, like it physically pains him to say those words.
What in the holy hell is going on?
“Can weseriouslyjust get back to business?” Taking a step away from Ford so I can think clearly, I get my head back in the game and stop wondering why he’s acting different.
“He’s not gonna like it.”
Looking back over my shoulder, I glare at Marcus when he comes back behind the bar to fill up a glass with pop and hand it to one of our other waitresses.
“Shut up. Your opinion is invalid.”
He just chuckles while he starts wiping down a few of the skull glasses that came out of the dishwasher with the bar towel Ford tossed to him. Considering he’s the bar manager, and I’m just a lowly waitress and fill-in bartender, his opinion iskind ofvalid.
“Just show me,” Ford finally relents with a sigh.
I play it cool as I slowly uncross my arms, turn away from him, and move up behind the bar, even though I want to jump up and down with excitement.
“He’s not gonna liiike iiit,” Marcus singsongs under his breath again, and I shoot him another annoyed look. Since he’s a whole foot taller than me, just like Ford is, I have to tip my head back to glare at him.
“You pipe down, or I’ll tell your wife you stay late on Thursdays to watch ESPN and not to go over inventory.”
“You wouldn’t,” Marcus whispers with wide, nervous eyes.
I’ve seen this man rip a giant pumpkin in half with his bare hands. He’s tossed grown men out the door and onto the sidewalk like they weighed nothing more than a feather. And yet the only thing he fears in life is the wrath of his wife and the possibility that she’ll cut him off from sex.
I really wouldn’t rat him out, but he doesn’t need to know that. I will always cover for this man when he needs a break from my crazy friend, just like I will always let Callie sneak over to steal my coffee and have all of her Amazon packages delivered to my house.
“Steve, you ready?” I ask the man sitting on a bar stool across from me, who’s practically vibrating in his seat he’s so excited.
“Let’s do this shit!” he shouts, throwing his fists up in the air before bracing them on top of the bar and leaning closer to me. “Tell me what I need to do again.”
Grabbing the bottle of tequila that I took off the shelf a few minutes ago, I quickly fill a shot glass and set it down in front of him.
“You just do this shot when I tell you, and I’ll do the rest.”
