Page 15 of You Make Me Feel
“Want to take a picture?” I ask her, trying not to grin.
She lets out a huff. “I was just wondering if you’d fit in that fridge. And if anybody would notice you’re missing if I stuff you in there.”
I bite down a smile. “That sounds a little… serial killer-ish.”
“It’s better than being mediocre,” she snaps back.
Jesus, she really is still salty about that? I let out a breath. “When I said that…”
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t need to explain yourself.” Then lower, as if she thinks I can’t hear her when she whispers. “You can’t say anything that will make me like you anyway.”
I straighten slowly, close the fridge, and rest my hand on the door. “Good thing that isn’t my goal.”
She crosses her arms, that spark in her eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. “Then why are you here, Zach?”
“Hudson told me to put the beers away.”
“Which should take you two seconds. And yet… here you still are. Why is that?”
I step closer, close enough to smell the faint trace of her perfume, something floral and clean that doesn’t fit with how sharp her tongue is. “I’m still here because Autumn volunteered me for the art trail, and I was going to ask when we should meet up.”
God, I’m a great liar when I want to be.
Her chin lifts. “It’s fine. I told you I’ve got everything covered. You don’t need to do anything.”
I blink. I’m absolutely sure she means it. If I want to, I could walk away from the committee and nobody will care. Well, except Autumn that is. And I can deal with her.
And yet, I don’t like being told I’m not needed, apparently.
“I said I’d do it, and I will.” My voice firm. “So when do we meet?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m very busy.”
A smile pulls at the corner of my lips. “I’m sure you are. I’ll tell you what, give me your number and I’ll message you. You can check your very full calendar and get back to me.”
“You think I’m going to give you my number?” she asks tartly.
“I promise to delete it as soon as we’re done,” I say. “You don’t have to worry, I won’t be sending you drunk texts in the middle of the night.”
Letting out a sigh, she rattles it off, and I plug it into my phone. “And now I really have to go,” she says. “Bro’s Book Club won’t start until I leave.”
“They make you leave?” Well that’s strange. She owns the place, after all.
“I leave voluntarily. The last thing I need is to hear a group of grown men talk awkwardly about books they haven’t read.” She grabs her purse then hesitates, staring at her desk. I follow her gaze to see a well-thumbed paperback on there. It’s black, with embossed leaves all over it, the title in bright vermillion lettering.
The Hunting of Red.
She swallows hard, then tries to be surreptitious as she slides the book into the drawer of her desk. Then she turns on her heels and heads for the office door, leaving a trail of floral perfume and annoyance behind her.
“I’m off,” she announces. “Be good, boys. Don’t trash my shop.”
There are murmurs of goodbye as she leaves. I grab a beer from the six pack before I head back into the main shop, pausing for a moment by her desk.
And then I open the drawer, pull out the book, and take it with me into the Bro’s Book Club.
A little light reading. Taking a seat, I crack open my beer, and glance at the title again. If this is what she’s into, I’m suddenly very interested in homework.
Bro’s Book Club turns out to be nowhere near as exciting as I expect it to be. For a start, it turns out they allactually wantto talk about the book. I lean over and murmur to Asher, “When do we get to the good stuff?”
