Page 61 of Micah
Dreaming about Micah Fiero isn't going to keep this place running.
Even if a tiny, traitorous part of me wishes he'd walk through that door tonight.
Please, oh please.
I smile despite myself as I pull another rack of pint glasses from the sanitizer.
My van hasn't smelled musty once since.
The air conditioner actually blows cold now.
Breathing on the drive home has been easier.
Of course, I noticed.
The ridiculous thing is I never got to thank him properly.
By the time I'd gotten over my surprise that night, he'd already mumbled something about preventative maintenance, shrugged like replacing filters on near strangers' vehicles was perfectly normal behavior, and disappeared into the darkness before I could collect my thoughts.
Weird man.
Sweet man.
But yeah, very weird.
My smile fades.
Who am I kidding?
He probably wasn't flirting.
That's just Micah.
Quiet.
Helpful.
Gone before anyone can make a fuss.
Besides, he clearly doesn't want anything to do with me.
Half the time he barely says two words.
Maybe that's just how he is.
Or maybe—I shake my head and laugh at myself.
“Stop it, Sloane.”
I don't have time to build castles in the sky.
Not when there's inventory to finish.
Not when the weekend rush starts in twenty minutes.
Not when I'm already two prep lists behind because Milly called out sick.
Again.
