Page 69 of Trust Me

Chapter 19

Dean

It had been a long night, with barely any time to catch my breath. I knew alcohol could make people a little crazy, but it was a different beast when I worked in a bar. It sure made me wonder how booze was legal everywhere but weed wasn’t.

Despite the craziness and my rush to clean up, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about my interaction with Oli. Something had changed from one moment to the next. I assumed I’d offended him somehow, but I wasn’t sure how.

This was starting to feel like a pattern.

As I flopped the mop onto the floor, I ran through the conversation again. I’d never claimed to be all that smart when it came to my relationships, and though I was pretty intuitive, some things went over my head. Sadie had gotten pissed at me a lot for it. She’d give hints, I’d fail to catch them, and then it would be my fault that I didn’t do what she wanted.

God, was that a game Oli was playing?

“Can I ask you something?”

Remi looked over at me from where he was counting the money from the till. “Do you have to?”

“No.”

Refocusing on the mop, I targeted a particularly sticky spot. I was pretty sure it was from me pouring drinks, but it felt better if I just blamed it on Remi being reckless.

A loud sigh came from his side of the bar. “What is it, kid?”

“I’m not a kid.”

“I was in second grade when you were born. Accept that I’m wiser than you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Without looking at him, I pushed back my pride. “I think I upset Oli.”

“Obviously.”

I scoffed and turned to face him. Leaning my weight on the mop handle, I narrowed my eyes. “You can read him that well?”

“My instincts are fine-tuned to him, yeah. Like a lion protecting her cub.”

“So now you’re a lioness? Interesting.”

“Just spit it out. Clearly, you’re worried about him.”

“I’m not worried,” I argued. “I just feel like I keep saying the wrong things. Frankly, I don’t want to walk on eggshells around him.”

“Damn. Heard of a thing called empathy?”

With a growl, I started mopping again. “That’s not what I meant.”

“He’s picking up on your cues,” he said after it had been silent for a few minutes.

“I’m not giving any cues.”

“Not that you’re aware of. Even on a micro level, he’s noticing the things you don’t say. Or the way you say something. It’s your vibes, if you will.”

“So, he has anxiety or something?”

“Nah, not in the traditional sense.”

I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t being helpful, but he’d probably just capitalize on my confusion. Something about getting under my skin seemed to bring him joy, which was just annoying. And he knew that, so it was an endless dance.

When I finished with the floor, I walked into the back and hung the mop up. After dumping the bucket and spraying it out, I turned around. Swearing, I reared back.