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I take a step back. I understand his frustration, but it’s pointed in the wrong direction.
“It was a rigged test,” he barks.
I told Devon I would help him, and I will. It begins with telling him the truth, no holding my tongue, no secrets. That’s what friends do. “And you failed.” I don’t hold back. “Miserably.”
His jaw clinches so tight, I expect to hear his molars grinding.
“Would you rather I stood in front of your face and lied? That’s not the type of person who has your best intentions at heart.”
His gaze lowers to the floor, and I fear my words may have broken him. The silence in the café is deafening.
An hour-long minute passes before he moves. His hands untying and retying his sneaker. His words a mere whisper. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t pay attention to the actual packages, I read the label at the top of the shelf and assumed. The truth was staring me in the face all day, if only I had allowed myself to open my eyes and see it.”
I step toward him, bending and extending my hands to help him to his feet. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It was your first day and…” I release his hands and strut in front of him. Hips swinging side to side, arms raised to the ceiling, I give him what he needs—a moment of levity. “…I was kind of a distraction all day.”
On my trip home to pick up the outfits, I did a quick change. My favorite tight jeans, a white silk tank top blouse that always gets a reaction from guys, and an oversized, button-down, burnt orange sweater that somehow always falls off my shoulders, exposing way too much skin for this time of the year.
If I’m going to get Devon to commit to my crazy plan, I know I need to provide an incentive. I twist away from him and right on cue, my sweater droops off one shoulder, his gaze snapping to my naked shoulder.
“Distraction, you say.” Gone is the frustration and anger. Wiped away with a little skin and tight jeans. I skip backwards and embrace the moment. A unique chemistry sparkling in the air between us. “That right there.” I point at him. “That look.”Devon tilts his head, heat practically radiating off him. “I had to stop. Had to in order to get any work done earlier. I lost count.”
“Count?”
“The number of times I looked up and caught you staring in my direction.”
“Interesting.” He steps toward me slowly as if he doesn’t want to rush this moment. Good, neither do I. “I did the same. But I never stopped counting.”
Devon is full-on flirting with me, and my happy heart loves every second of it. “Let’s do this. On three, we shout the number.” I’m twenty-eight years old and haven’t had so much fun teasing a guy since I was eighteen and had asked Manuel, the dreamy quiet kid who I suspected had a crush on me, to the fall high school dance.
“We really going there?” Devon steps in front of me, his feet planted hip-width apart. He reaches his hands out for me to take his. I don’t hesitate.
My lips part, and I hear a breath escape as I enjoy the spark shoot up through me. “On three.”
“One… two… three.”
We’re two synchronized souls speaking. “Two hundred sixty-two,” I say.
“Six hundred and forty-seven,” he says, and I lose it.
An uncontrollable fit of giggles forces their way out of my mouth. My poor sweater never stands a chance. It falls off both shoulders, not stopping until it stretches across my torso. Thank goodness I’m wearing a tank top underneath.
Devon gives my hand a slight tug, forcing me to step forward. He doesn’t ease until I’m standing three inches in front of him, the tips of my sneakers tapping his. He releases one hand, and it reaches behind me, lifting the corner of my sweater. He’s slow-motion smooth, taking his time, his eyes marking a trail for hishand to follow. Inch by inch. “I win,” he whispers, and I have no reply.
He lifts the corner of the sweater, his index finger touching my bare skin as he adjusts the material. His hand presses against my shoulder to set it in place, and I warn myself not to look at him directly in his dreamy eyes. This close, I am no longer responsible for my actions.
I force myself to speak. I say the three words I know will make this situation worse. “What’s the prize?”
He releases my other hand, a mirror movement from a moment ago. I take a deep inhale and wait. Wait for his response. Wait for him to adjust my sweater. Wait for his finger to accidentally brush against my shoulder again. I usually hate to wait. But for him, I hope he takes all night.
I hear the shutter of my breath when his finger brushes against my bare shoulder. Skin to skin. We’re alone in a deserted café, and this man is putting the moves on me. And I’m totally okay with it.
“You’re the prize,” he delivers the line like a man of experience. The opposite of how he is every time he steps behind the counter. “That, and I get to set a new record tomorrow.”
I point to a far dark corner of the café. “Maybe I should sit over there tomorrow and wear my ugly purple jumpsuit. I don’t want to be a distraction and be responsible for you getting yourself fired.”
His chuckle warms my heart. “You could wear a Grimace costume, and I’d still never be able to tear my eyes from you.”
Our noses are less than two inches from one another. It would be so easy to tip up on my toes and steal a kiss. But I won’t make the first move. I don’t know Devon. He could have a girlfriend. He could be a player.
