Page 2 of The Great Dating Fake Off
He balls up the dustpan paper as I snap the Rubbermaid lid in place. I fall back on my haunches, pressing my knees together as I pant from the exertion of panic. Had I known I would be crawling around on the floor, I wouldn’t have worn a short denim skirt to work.
“One last check to be sure.” The stranger lies on his stomach, arms in push-up position, and examines the two-inch gap beneath the checkout counter.The brim of his hat obscures his face.
“Please tell me we didn’t miss any,” I bemoan. “I cannot infest this store the one and only time the owner leaves town.”
His deep voice bounces off the floor. “We’re in the clear.”
“These gloves are now compromised.” I tug mine off and hurl it into the trashcan beneath the register.
He sits up and follows my lead, chucking his glove in after mine.Our eyes meet for the first time and his features strike an immediate, harmonious chord in my brain.
His warm brown eyes are framed by dark lashes, and a few freckles dot the bridge of his nose. Lines near his mouth could give way to dimples, and not knowing if they do is going to drive me a little batty until he smiles. His cheeks are high and lightly flushed, the kind that probably get pinched a lot at grocery stores by saucy elderly ladies who can’t help themselves.
Wowza.
When we rise from the ground, he unfurls an extra foot compared to me. Leftover adrenaline dances through me as my gaze climbs his body, taking note of old but stylish Adidas sneakers, snug jeans with a streak of paint near the pocket, and a tight, no-nonsense white shirt. A hint of dark ink peeks out from beneath the edge of his short sleeve.
I take a deep breath, willing my heart rate to slow down. “Thanks for the help.”
“No need to thank me. I’m the one who snuck up on you.” He adjusts his cap. Dark hair just long enough to curl at the edges wisps out from beneath. “You are open, right? The door was unlocked.”
“We’re open. The bell is broken, and I was too distracted to hear the door.”
The stranger’s gaze darts to Tairn’s enclosure. “Got it.” Distracted talking to a bearded dragon, he may as well say. Lord knows he heard it all. “I was hoping to talk to the manager. Sorry it’s late in the day—I ran here from work.”
His skin does have that sheen of a workout or at least a hard day’s labor. And, since he’s built like a bodyguard—big enough to throw down but trim enough to blend in—I have no trouble imagining him actually running.
My gaze boomerangs off his tattooed biceps, heat creeping up my neck. “Manager, yes. That’s me. Did you need help finding something?”
“I’m Sebastian Rossi from the local chapter of the Boys and Girls Club. I spoke to the owner a few weeks back about using this space with a few of our mentor-mentee teams. He told me to come by to speak with the manager today.”
Not at all what I expected this guy to say, and not just because Benji never mentioned the Boys and Girls Club to me.
I absently pat the pocket of my skirt for my phone, AKA the vessel that holds the almighty calendar I live and die by. I must’ve left it on the table. “Sure. I can show you around and you can tell me if the space will suit your needs. Would that work?”
The sun streaming in from the window hits him just right, as though he chose to stand in that spot on purpose. His olive-toned skin boasts an easy tan, the kind that endures year-round. His eyes—an indulgent brown—scan the store. “That’d be great.”
I take three large steps to circumvent the counter. “Okay, on the right we’ve got the cafe. Let me just tell you upfront we don’t serve food in case that’s a dealbreaker. You’d think it goes without saying in a place with no kitchen, but you’d be surprised how many people ask me for sandwiches.”
A chuckle gets caught in his throat. “So, there will be no sandwiches on this tour or otherwise. Got it.”
“Correct.” I point vaguely in that direction. “The Cuisinart is so old one wrong noise could shatter the glass, but it still works. We sell coffee for a dollar a cup.” I pause. “Wait, you said you work with kids, right? So you probably don’t want to caffeinate the tiny humans.”
“I mentor high school athletes—they guzzle Red Bulls to wind down. Our tutoring groups used to meet at Starbucks on North Brunswick Street but, uh”—his lips pull into a line—“the kids really don’t have the money to spare, and all the mentors spend cash on overpriced drinks for everyone so they don’t feel weird taking up table space. I’d rather give a local business my money.”
My heart goes a little gooey. I wouldn’t have been able to afford a single thing on the Starbucks menu when I was younger. Every spare dollar my mother or I could scrape together went to rent or car maintenance. Heck, sometimes those things were one and the same when our car was our home. “Their prices are a disgrace. Almost ten dollars a drink? I’ll grow my own spiced pumpkins and peppermint sticks, thank you.”
His lips lift into a polite smile. “That’d be a hell of a farm.”
So he does have dimples.
Distracting ones.
“Right. Onward.” I move toward the bookshelves.
He walks with swagger, there’s no denying it. Hands in his pockets, chin slightly lifted so he can see from beneath the bill of his cap, ground-eating strides born of his long legs.
“And over here we have the money makers.” I guide him past rows of free-standing bookshelves toward a wall of built-ins that extend all the way to the ceiling. “General fiction, fantasy, all the other book-shaped things. My Beauty and the Beast sliding ladder is broken, though. Just know it’s very cool when it’s functional.”
