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“Nah, just a round of Natty Light and your number should do it.” He smirks, glancing around at his companions.
His buddies all holler at his boldness, clapping him on the shoulder. He winks at me as I hand over the cold mugs.
“Open or closed?” I question.
He hands his black credit card over. “I’ll be open all night, baby.”
My eyes roll at the line.
The rest of the night completely sucks because they stay almost until closing. My skin crawls as I walk home in the dark, glancing back over my shoulder at every sound.
8
Adam
When I walk into Principles of Horticulture early on Monday morning, I see Harley sitting in the front row. She’s bent over her desk. Her hair is pulled into a high, messy bun, revealing her inked skin around the thin blue straps of her shirt. I take a steadying breath before deciding that sitting behind her will be far more distracting than just choosing the seat next to her.
“Mornin’.”
Her head lifts up, and I catch my breath as her wide lake-blue eyes snap into mine.
Maybe behind her would be a better choice.
“Hi,” is all I get before she looks back down at her notebook, opened to a blank page.
“Mind if I sit here?”
She doesn’t seem thrilled to see me, which bothers me more than I care for.
“It’s open,” she mumbles.
Awkwardly standing in the aisle isn’t my favorite pastime, so I claim the chair. I have sisters, so I’m not completely dense as to when a woman isn’t happy.
“How was your weekend?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “Fine.”
Definitely not thrilled to see me.
“What did you do?”
I’m racking my brain for when I may have misstepped at the party. Was it the shirt thing?
“Work,” she replies.
I should give up.
“Where do you work?”
I like the raspy sound of her voice too much.
“Bar on Seventh.”
“What? How old are you?”
Her gaze meets mine again. “Eighteen. Why?”
“How can you work at a bar if you’re only eighteen?”
