Page 45 of Small Town Swoo
All during my shift, I kept my eye on the pub’s front door, anticipation rising with each passing hour.
By nine, my hopes plateaued.
At ten, they began to sink. I asked Xander in the most casual tone I could muster if he thought Dash was coming by tonight. I was only working until eleven because I had to open the diner in the morning.
“I’m not sure what he’s doing,” Xander said. “Earlier today he said he might, but he must have ended up somewhere else.”
I nodded and went back to pouring beers and mixing cocktails, but the butterflies that had been fluttering in my stomach all night were gone. If he’d told Xander he might come up here, that meant he thought about it and decided against it. It meant he’d gotten a better offer. It meant he didn’t care whether or not he saw me tonight.
Distraught, I turned on the tap and berated myself as the tall glass filled. Why was I still so hung up on Dashiel Buckley? What was it about him that got under my skin?Was it because I was lonely and he felt safe? Did I just want a hot famous guy to pay attention to me?
Maybe it was this fourteen-month dry spell. I hadn’t been with anyone since I walked away from Niall, and sex was starting to feel like a distant memory. Not that it had ever been that good with Niall—he was as narcissistic in bed as he was everywhere else.
Dash would be so different.
He was generous.
He’d listen to me.
He’d talk to me.
He’d care.
Give it up, Ari. It’s never going to happen. He just wants to be friends.
I finished up my shift and went home, falling into bed tired and cranky, determined to stop thinking of him like that once and for all.
And then he texted me.
EIGHT
dash
What?It was an innocent text.
At least, it was supposed to be.
I was just checking in with her. As a friend.
A friend who’d been thinking about her nonstop since I’d left her house two nights ago. A friend who’d forgotten his manners and kissed her. A friend who’d gotten himself off the last three nights in a row while fantasizing about her.
I’d told myself it was wrong. I’d told myself a guy shouldn’t think about his friends that way. I’d even stayed away from the bar tonight because I’d been afraid that if I saw her, I might say something stupid like,We should hang out later. Or walk her out to her car at the end of the night and give her a hug. Put my tongue in her mouth. My hands on her ass. My ideas in her head.
I’d had dinner with my dad tonight, and we’d watched some baseball before he snuck into his bedroom, where I heard him laughing behind the closed door.
Bored and frustrated, I searched for “Niall Hawke chef” on the internet. Scrolling through the results, I skimmedsome articles and looked at photos. By all accounts, he was a difficult, temperamental perfectionist with a lot of talent I decided he didn’t deserve. In every picture, he looked either angry or smug, but he definitely wasn’t big. Satisfied I could definitely kick his ass if it came to it (and I truly hoped someday I’d have the chance), I ended up falling asleep on the couch. I woke up about midnight and dragged myself upstairs to bed.
But I still couldn’t get her off my mind. I wondered if she’d gotten home from work yet. If she was still awake. If she was thinking about me.
After undressing and slipping between the sheets, I reached for my phone.
Hey.
Hey.
You home yet?
Yes.
