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But maybe he’s done practicing. Or maybe he’s already met his future lady. I did say he didn’t need me, didn’t I? So… yeah.
I sigh and slump over the bar, wiping sad circles with a cloth, and I know I’m being pathetic but I can’t seem to kick my own ass into gear.
So Kingston doesn’t want me. He never claimed that he did! It was only ever practice, and he passed with flying colors. I can’t be butt hurt now, after telling him that he didn’t need me after all. Can’t stumble around King’s with a tight throat and dry eyes, physically craving the huge man in a black button-down shirt like an addict jonesing for her fix.
“Something’s weird with you.” Charlene’s balanced on her toes, fixing up her makeup in the mirror behind us. We’re in a lull, and she likes to put her face on again before the evening crowds arrive. “Why are you all twitchy, munchkin?”
Because I had one dress rehearsal date with our scary boss and lost my mind over him. Had the realization way too late that he’s my dream man.
Because Kingston’s within earshot right now, glowering down at his laptop screen, but he hasn’t spoken to me once today.
Because I miss him.
“Um.” Can’t tell her any of that, but Charlene raises an eyebrow at me in the mirror. She’s brushing mascara over her dark lashes, her mouth half open. Why is that? Why do us girls all gape into the mirror like goldfish when we do our lashes? “I dunno. I’m just in a weird mood, I guess. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“All week?” she says, clearly disbelieving, and yeah, she’s not wrong. I’ve beenofffor days—ever since Kingston dropped me home and ran to his truck like his shirt was on fire.
I know I fumbled that interaction. That final stage of the night. But did he really just… give up on me? Just like that?
He was never really dating you, the mean little voice of logic whispers in my head. God, I hate that voice, and Charlene’s still watching me in the cloudy mirror.
“It’s my period,” I blurt, and flush bright red when I realize Kingston must’ve heard me. Perfect.
Well, it’snotmy period, but it shouldn’t be embarrassing either way, should it? I’m a human woman, with all the associated bodily functions. This is fine. I’m fine.
When I steal another glance down the bar, Kingston’s watching me with those dark eyes. Frowning. Oh, shit.
“I’ll grab more orange juice,” I say, scuttling sideways along the bar and spilling out into the main room. “Be right back.”
“Get cranberry too!” Charlene calls, and I wave at her over my shoulder as I charge between tables. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and that means the customers we have are scattered around the bar, talking in the sunshine spilling through the windows. It’s calm and sleepy. Not like my own frazzled energy at all.
I charge into the stock room and slam the door behind me, then lean my back against it. Breathe in… and out. In… and out.
The handle jiggles behind my back, then the door shoves open. I go flying, catching myself on the napkin shelves. A tub of straws explodes all over the floor.
“Shit!” Kingston’sheresuddenly, patting me down, those big hands traveling over my body. “Shit, Dani. Did I hurt you? Fuck. I’m sorry.”
We’re crammed in the stock room. More of a stock cupboard, really, and there’s a layer of paper straws all over my sneakers. Kingston looms above me, dark eyes tight with concern.
“Uh.” It takes a few seconds to unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth, but I finally manage it. “No, you didn’t hurt me. It’s all good. Um. Hang on.”
My head swoops as I drop to my knees, gathering big handfuls of paper straws and shoving them back in the tub. We can’t use these straws now, but they need cleaning up anyhow.
My heart stops as Kingston kneels too. Even crouched on the ground, he takes up so much space. Takes up all the air in this tiny room.
The straws look like tiny pale toothpicks in his big, scarred hands. He grips the tub too, trapping my fingers beneath his warm, dry palm.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, trying to clean up even faster. My cheeks are burning, and I’m glad the single light bulb in here is so weak. Bet I’m redder than a tomato right now.
“‘S my fault,” Kingston says, and god, this is so awkward again. Why did I ever agree to that date? Now I’m heartbroken and my favorite ever job is ruined too. “Shouldn’t have followed you in here like that.”
…He what?
He followed me in here?
“For supplies?” I croak, hoping and praying that Kingston came in here for literally any other reason. To grump at me about work stuff; to ask for another practice date. Anything if it means his eyes are on me.
The straws are mostly cleaned up now, and I fish under the bottom shelves for the stragglers. They come out dusty, trailing gray wigs of fluff.
