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Instead I’m the same careworn bastard that I always am, with a faded shirt and in need of a shave—and now I can’t stop glancing at my own reflection in the dark office window, tugging at my collar as I fight wave after wave of unease.
It seemed like such a genius brainwave out there, to suggest this to Marigold. Seemed right.
Now I feel like a prize jackass. Why on earth would a sweet little thing like Marigold want to hang around after hours to draw me?
“Prick,” I mutter, dragging my attention away from the warped, ghoulish reflection in the window, back to the financial spreadsheets on my computer screen. Christ, this view is no better. Groaning, I scrub a palm down my face, then force myself back to work.
Oh, the bar’s finances are just fine. We had a bumper summer, but still.
I’m not built to sit in squeaky desk chairs and squint at screens. This right here, all this admin and bullshit—this is the price I pay to keep my bar running, to stay lording over my own private kingdom where I don’t answer to any man.
The sounds of that kingdom float through the closed office door—humming country music, the stomp of boots over floorboards, bursts of drink-fueled laughter and loud talk—and usually I’m better at blocking everything out, but since Marigold started coming here, I’m distractible as hell.
Because she’s out there. Not twenty steps beyond that door, perched on that high stool with her cute purple dress riding up her thighs. And she said yes. Why’d she say yes? Was she just trying to humor me? Trying not to hurt any feelings? But she’s done all those sketches of me…
Fuck.
I should take it back. Make some excuse; act like tonight’s not a good time, then never, ever bring it up again. Maybe, if she presses me on it, claim that I had a stroke and lost my mind.
Do it, I urge myself, gripping the edge of the wooden table. Go out there and tell her it’s not gonna happen.
Except my ass stays planted firmly in my cracked leather desk chair.
Guess I won’t give up this chance to spend alone time with Marigold—not even in this shabby old shirt.
* * *
“It’s so quiet,” Marigold says, her voice hushed to match. She’s standing in the middle of the bar floor, sketchbook hugged to her front, blinking owlishly around the empty room. Abandoned tables and booths are silent in the golden light, freshly scrubbed after tonight’s guests, and the air smells like orange blossom and honey.
Even Jana and Tess have gone, each collected by their fella for the dark walk home. They both smirked at me and giggled together on their way out, digging elbows into ribs, but I let that slide.
Hard to be mad about anything when I’m with Marigold. And I’m with her now.
Alone.
Christ, she’s even smaller than I realized, now that I get a proper look at her. The top of her head wouldn’t even brush my chin.
“Where do you want to set up?”
My voice is rougher than usual, made extra gravelly by hours of cursing myself under my breath. Yet here we are, and this is happening. Sweet Marigold’s gonna draw me for the hundredth time, and this time we’ll both know about it.
A flush creeps up my neck at the thought. I cough and tug at one rolled sleeve.
“Maybe I could go there?” Marigold points at one of the booths, a pool of light spreading over its empty table. “And you could… um…”
Yeah. Um.
How do I even do this? How do I model for someone without looking and feeling like a total prick? ‘Cause it seems like I should stretch out on that table with an apple in my mouth, naked as a suckling pig, but that ain’t happening. I may only have the tiniest shred of dignity left, but I’m holding onto it with both hands.
Chewing on her bottom lip, Marigold crosses to the booth and spreads her sketchbook out over the table. As she finds a blank page, she’s extra careful not to let me see the stuff she’s already done.
The sketches she’s already done of me.
The reminder puffs up my chest, just a little. No need for me to stomp around blushing like a virgin bride—Marigold likes drawing me. That’s why I offered to do this, right?
So I could spend some time with her. So I could make her happy.
And so I could figure out why I’m sweet Marigold’s favorite subject.
