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Yeah, turns out Jana can’t lie to save her life. Or mine.
I swallow, shading one of the men’s sleeves in my drawing. They were both wearing those thick flannel shirts that are like a uniform here in the fall.
Be cool, Jana. Be cool.
The boss’s gaze narrows on her as he leans down to open a refrigerator—then there’s a waft of chilled air, and Flint crouches behind the bar to check on the stock.
“Whiskey’s low too,” Jana says helpfully. “I was gonna get more once you were here to watch the bar.”
Flint grunts again, and there’s a clink of bottles out of sight. Jana scuttles gratefully out from behind the bar, winking at me as she hurries toward the stock room in the back.
Then I’m left in silence with the star of my sketchbook. My hand sweats around my pencil, and I adjust my grip, trying to act like I’m not holding my breath while I wait for the boss to appear again.
His hand comes first, strong and callused with the faint lines of old scars, gripping the edge of the bar. I stare at it shamelessly, trying to commit the short nails and square knuckles to memory, before the grip tightens and the rest of the man rises into view.
Short dark hair, pushed back from his forehead—not quite black, but the darkest brown.
Tan skin, faintly lined at his forehead, and thick, heavy eyebrows, always pinched together in a scowl.
Then those eyes. Those eyes. Hazel irises, a flecked swirl of brown and green, like a blurred impression of the forested mountainside—surrounded by dark, smoky eyelashes.
My fingertips tingle around my pencil. My pulse flutters in my wrists and throat.
I’m staring right at Flint.
He’s staring back.
When he finally looks away, it’s to glance at the drink by my elbow. It’s still half full, with condensation sliding down the outside of the glass and a slice of lemon bobbing where two ice cubes used to be. I snatch it up and take a sip.
Flint watches me swallow, his scowl shifting to my throat. I swear to god, static crackles in the air—like when lightning readies to strike the mountain peak. I fidget on my stool.
Does he feel it too?
Flint’s chest rises and falls beneath his navy flannel shirt, but he says nothing. Not a single word to me until Jana comes back, heaving a cardboard box onto the bar with a clinking chorus of glass bottles.
“Hoo!” she says, wiping her arm across her forehead. “We need to dust down that stock room, boss. There are enough spiders in there to hold a council meeting.”
A strange expression slides across Flint’s features—here and gone so fast I can’t read it properly. Then he nods and clips out, “Do it now, then. I’ll watch the bar.”
Jana beams, squeezing behind the bar to gather up dusting supplies. Cloths, spray bottles and a feather duster fill her arms, then she’s off again, calling out a cheerful greeting to a table of regulars.
Flint watches her go, his expression thoughtful.
Heart racing, I shade in another section of sleeve.
“I cleaned that stock room this morning,” Flint says after a long while, his deep, gravelly voice making me jump. I blink up at him, my pencil stilling on the paper. “And Jana’s not the type to slack off. So what’s her game here? Do you know, Marigold?”
Flint knows my name? Since when? How?
“I… I’m not… I don’t…”
Good lord, I’ve forgotten how to speak. Always thought that someone being tongue-tied was a figure of speech, but now it’s like my tongue has been knotted in an actual pretzel. Kill me now.
It’s just so hard to form words when the hot, stern older man I’ve been dreaming about all summer is right there, polishing a glass with a cloth. At least he’s not staring directly at me anymore, because then I can’t speak at all. Can barely even breathe.
Whoo. Okay.
I can do this. I can make casual conversation with the man I’ve pictured laying me across his lap and spanking my ass until it’s pink. I can.
