AllFreeNovel
Share Us
No, what am I thinking? That’s ridiculous.
The room’s lone functioning dryer is already at work, but the washer is free. “Are you using that?” I ask, pointing to it.
He gives a single shake of his head, leaning back and crossing his arms over that massive chest.
Tough crowd.
Does he think I’m still avoiding him after apologizing on Tuesday? It’s only been two days. It’s not like our paths crossed a lot to begin with.
Or maybe he’s simply not the chatty type. Fine. I can be like that, too.
I set my basket on top of the washer, the steady rumble of the dryer covering up the silence between us as I discreetly place my bras and undies into my mesh bag, my back to him. Why in the hell didn’t I do that at home first?
I glance over my shoulder, finding his gaze still on me. Can’t he at least pretend to look at his phone?
“Um, when will those be up and running again?” I point at the two sets of washers and dryers along the far wall. “They’ve been out of commission every time I’ve come in here.”
His attention finally snaps away toward where I’m pointing. “Those have been out since I moved in.”
“When was that?”
His forehead wrinkles. “About four and a half years ago.”
Oh. “So top priority for management to fix them, huh?”
His mouth twitches for the briefest of moments as he looks back at me, and I glance away hastily, not wanting him to catch me looking.
I cross over to the change machine, pulling my tips out of my coin purse to feed into it for quarters. “Wish they had a card reader in here.”
He gives a soft grunt, stretching out lower in his seat. “If they won’t fix the rest of the washers and dryers, they’re not going to add that.”
Fair point. “At least I get plenty of singles at work.” I hold up all the dollar bills in my hand, then shut my eyes, immediately realizing how that sounded. Heat washes over me, my tongue tripping over itself to explain. “I’m not a stripper.” God, that was even worse.
His brows raise, but he stays otherwise quiet.
“I work at a diner,” I clarify. “I’m a server there. These are tips from serving food. Not… other stuff.”
I’m providing him with a minefield of joke material, aren’t I? Begging him to say something about me twirling on a pole on stage. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut around him?
“I thought you worked in the Stress Lab,” he says, letting me off the hook easy.
I let out a breath, some of the warmth receding from my face and chest. “No, I don’t get paid for that.”
His brows shoot up even higher. “You do all that for free?”
“Yeah, for experience. I’ll have a published study to my name when I apply for grad school next year. It’s a huge leg up.”
His gaze roams my face, studying me. Is it still pink? “You going to be a doctor or something? One of those PhDs?”
I shrug. “Hopefully. If I get accepted somewhere.” And if I figure out how to pay for it.
I retrieve my quarters from the change machine, carefully placing them into the tiny slots on top of the washer.
“Did you write that email?” he asks.
I turn to him, cocking my head.
“The one that was sent before the study.”
