Page 3 of The Great Dating Fake Off
“Broken?” He glances sideways. “Which part of it?”
“I’m not sure, actually. The whole thing feels looser than it’s supposed to these last few days, so I’m trying not to use it until I figure it out.”
He stares at the ladder like he’s powerless against its lure. I want to gather his attention back, but the strong line of his jaw steals mine. There’s shadow but no stubble, a hint of what’s to come.
“Huh. That’s not good.” He wraps his fingers around a rung and tests it for stability. A burnished gold class ring that looks far too old to be his clinks against the metal. Princeton. “Do you have someone to fix it?”
“Oh, I wasn’t trying to suggest you had to fix it.” I spin the gold band around my pointer finger, which is very much not from Princeton, as I add, “You already helped me exterminate the store. I’m not trying to bother you for manual labor, too.”
“If you’re sure.”
Warmth skitters across my chest as I hug myself. “Yes, but thank you anyway. The owner gets back from a trip today and he’ll take care of it.”
“Good.” He gives the side of the ladder one last little shake. “It’s the top track that’s loose and not the ladder itself, if you want to let him know.”
My brows lift. “You figured that out fast.”
“I spend way too much time on ladders.” Our gazes collide. “This place is great. What would you charge for us to use the cafe space once a week for tutoring? Likely through the end of next school year, but we’ll start with August and reevaluate after.”
Pride swells in my chest. I lugged those bistro tables here from a yard sale, chose the paint color and furniture, and arranged the layout to maximize gathering space. It’s the same way I’d probably feel if someone told me my apartment was great. “I wouldn’t charge you. It’s nice, what your club is doing.”
Boyish enthusiasm sneaks into his tone. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say with a chuckle. “I’m sure you’ll buy plenty of cups of our mediocre coffee to make it worth our while.”
His half smile is just as potent as his full smile. “That’s very true. Well, thank you. What do I need to do next?”
“I can set up a recurring calendar invitation for the days.” I shuffle sideways and pluck my phone off the table. “I just need an email.”
“Okay.” His hands curl around his hips. All that does is draw my attention to the fit of his jeans. “Do you want mine or the manager’s?”
While curious what his chosen email address might reveal about him, I temper the urge to say yours. “Whoever is in charge of coordinating is fine.”
“Probably the manager.” He takes off his hat, runs his hand through thick hair, and replaces it. It’s the perfect brown to complement his eyes. “Though he’s not the most responsive guy, honestly. Maybe I should just give you mine?”
I’m not sure if he’s asking himself or me, so I offer him a tentative smile and wait for whatever email he wants to give me.
Or, you know, his phone number. For professional reasons.
“It’d just make sense,” he continues, “since I’m the one rallying all the other mentors for now. They need some kind of leader, since they don’t have good direction coming from anyone else.” His gesticulating picks up speed and intensity like he’s getting riled up. “The thing is, the manager of this region is very hands-off and doesn’t seem to want to be troubled with operational details. He’s kind of an ass, actually. Not sure who hired him for that particular role, since communication is almost one hundred percent of the job.”
For someone with paint on his jeans and a rough-and-tumble physique—as in, this guy has never been picked last for any sports team in his life—he’s oddly polished discussing the operational details of this organization. And impassioned. “Oh?”
“Sorry, ignore me. I’m usually…” He lets out a frustrated sigh and waves his hand. “I’m usually in charge. The mentor gig is different for me. And temporary. Not that I don’t enjoy it, because I do. I’m just usually the one setting up clubs.” His gaze catches mine and he scratches his neck. “Here I am rambling while you probably need to get ready for your party.”
I blink a few times, snapping myself out of a mini trance. His deep voice is like cashmere. “Sorry, what? My party?”
He points at my hair. “Birthday?”
I lift my hand to check for frizz and slap the purple party hat I 100 percent forgot I was wearing to advertise tomorrow’s event. With a rough jerk, I tear it off my head. It says Join us for an un-birthday party! and I was very proud of it, until about three seconds ago.
“Oh. No party.” My attention jumps to the purple, black, and white balloon arch across the store that I painstakingly set up this afternoon. “There’s an event tomorrow to discuss Alice in Wonderland and its retellings. I don’t throw parties for myself at my own workplace. Or anywhere. Not that there’s anything wrong with celebrating your own birthday, if you do that.” I press my lips shut for a few seconds and smooth my hair. “Now I’m rambling.”
“I don’t mind.” His eyes meet mine. The shade of brown looks like caramel taffy stretched and held up to the light. His gaze flits lower, lingering…
Impossible. He’s not looking at my mouth.
“What’s your number?” he asks.
