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Okay, it’s more he hired himself, but semantics…
She doesn’t wait for him to offer his hand; she grabs it and shakes it hard. She’s a strong woman, but he takes it in his stride. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Ooh, Declan better step up his game, girl. That’s all I’m saying.”
She finishes her coffee and then I give her another cookie and she takes her bag and swans out the door, into the gray morning.
“Mrs. O’Reilly is… interesting,” he says, amusement running warm through his voice.
“She is. And she’s sweet.”
His eyebrow raises, but he doesn’t say anything.
I hand him an espresso and take mine and add milk and sugar and then pop a cookie on a plate for him. He didn’t have one yesterday, but I’m sure that’s just because it was a job interview. Only monsters and people named Sinclair hate cookies.
Fine, I don’t know if the last one is true, but I imagine it is. He takes the coffee and has a sip. Outside, the sky growls.
“Usually today is slow, so I stock and then dust and do all kinds of things. I’ll show you the register.” I stop and lift my gaze to him which is a little too easy to do. I know I need to stop secretly ogling him because I’m his boss. But it’s hard, he’s just so hot. “Unless you know how to use one. You probably do—”
“I don’t.”
“Oh.” I frown and play with my cup. “Didn’t you do an afterschool job?”
“Not one behind a register. It’s okay, I’m a fast learner.”
“Come around here.”
He does and I can barely breathe. How did I not notice there’s almost no space here? The heat of him seeps into me and he smells as divine as he did yesterday, that citrusy whiskey scent that teases and flirts. He’s probably married. I slide my gaze down to his hands. No ring. They’re beautiful hands, strong, capable, elegant.
I tell myself to breathe and start pointing out how to use the register. We go over it about five times and then I open the screen, select test, and then gesture for him to have a go.
“You know, I saw the modern register, but I pegged this place as having an old fashioned kind.”
I laugh, our hands brushing as I guide him through this part of the register and a shower of sweet heat washes through me from the brief and fleeting contact.
“Those things are temperamental and expensive. And this is old, secondhand, and cheap.”
“Like everything here.”
The words shouldn’t hurt because I don’t think he meant them the way they sounded. But that cheap part… it hurts. My good friend Suzanne said the same thing when I set this place up based on nothing but meager savings and a hell of a lot of sweat and tears and the blood and bones of a decaying relationship.
“Well. Just have a go with it. We’re quiet now, so I’ll just let you practice.” I look around as I edge out from behind the counter, suddenly crowded. My shop isn’t much, I guess.
It could use a paint job and the signs that I painted by hand because I couldn’t afford to pay for a professional suddenly no longer look charming. They look, well, cheap. And I could clean the window. I used to have a guy, but he moved out of the area a few months ago and I never got around to finding someone else. I know Mikey could use some cash. I guess I can try and stretch things a little further, see if he wants to do the windows weekly.
There’s another crack of thunder and it’s followed by a sheet of lightning that flashes bright.
Magnus comes up behind me. His wavery reflection in the window gives him away even though he walks silently. He puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s warm and comforting and I turn. “I’m sorry. I should have been watching and helping. Is something wrong?”
“Yeah.” He flashes the dimple briefly and I ignore the weakness in my knees. But his gaze seems to look down deep into me, like he can see my secrets. I don’t have any, but if I did, he’d see them.
“Don’t worry, any mistakes won’t mess up the books. You’re in practice mode.”
He frowns. “Not the register, Zoey. You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, I said cheap and I didn’t mean—”
