5
* * *
Charlie
The petulant,pissy part of me wants to slip on my wet shoes and walk right the hell out of here. I’d even leave my coat behind, I’m so annoyed. Like a disgruntled kid on the playground, I want to take my ball and go home.
But home, as it turns out, is a solid six hours away. And it’s already well past five o’clock. And, dammit, Trick has a point, I realize as I look out the window. My Bug is covered in snow. The windshield wipers peek out like stubby antennae swallowed up by the snow that has accumulated in the last half hour or so.
Holy shitballs. I hate to admit it, but this is actual snow. Looks like I won’t be leaving any time soon.
And that pisses me off more because Trick was right. It’s getting bad out there and I have no business being on the roads, even if I do actually know how to drive in bad weather. Waiting until morning is the safe and smart thing to do. I’ll be well-rested and I’ll have calmed down.
Using the light from the faint glow from the fire, I add logs and stoke the flame. If Trick can’t get the generator working, at least we’ll have a good fire going.
And maybe we’ll get into a situation where Trick has to use his body heat to keep me warm. Yeah, I could definitely get behind a scenario like that. I mean, yes, he ticks me off on the regular, but that’s kind of our thing.
Of course, I’m not the only woman on the Eastern Shore who would line up for the opportunity for naked cuddle time with Trick Cavanaugh. He’s magnetic. He’s easily half the reason people come to the bar. Sure, the atmosphere is cool, and the food and drinks are amazing, but I swear this place is packed with co-eds every night just to watch his muscles contract as he pours a beer or to watch his dimple appear as he tells a joke.
Trick is sex-personified. It’s an effortless look for him. He just oozes sensuality and sex appeal. Many of our patrons eat it up, and I can’t fault them. He’s especially popular with the college crowd. There’s even a group of sorority girls at Bainbridge U who worship him. They formed a trivia team--the Taco Belles-- for the sole purpose of ogling the man.
And maybe I’ve done my fair share of ogling during our shifts.
I give the fire another nudge, and more flames crackle to life. The lights flutter back on suddenly, and the creak of a door interrupts my solitary occupation.
“Generator’s on...obviously.” I see him shrug as I turn toward him. He walks over to the fire to warm up.
“Jesus. It’s fucking cold out there,” he says, rubbing his hands together in that universal I-need-to-get-warm motion. I say nothing, though the silence is probably awkward. I can’t think of anything to say. My mind is moving at warp-speed, an insane idea taking root and blooming.
What if I didn’t play it safe? What if I gave in to my fantasy, just for one night? Because I’m definitely stuck here until morning, that’s for sure. And Trick lives here, in this very bar. And Trick is gorgeous. And I’d be a fool not to notice the way he looks at me. I’ve never acted on it, but the chemistry is there. So, what’s the harm in making the best of a blizzard, right?
We could fuck in front of the fire all night and then part ways as friends in the morning.
I’m a genius.
As if he can read my lascivious thoughts, Trick strips his shirt off and lays it by the fireplace. And then, just to make my mouth water, I’m sure, he stretches upward and side-to-side, giving me multiple angles from which to view those washboard abs.
“I’m gonna grab dry clothes. Do you want to poke through the fridge and find the crab dip Nolan left?”
I nod, still incapable of coherent speech. Damn, but he has abs for days. And gorgeous back muscles that I always thought were reserved only for the covers of romance novels.
And he’s standing here, in the middle of his bar, shirtless, like it’s no big deal.
Wonder what he'd do if I stripped my shirt off? Maybe I’ll save that move for dessert.
I walk behind the bar and into the kitchen to warm up Nolan’s famous crab dip. Having worked here for three years, I’m familiar with where everything is, so I buzz around heating things up, chopping some celery sticks, then pouring drinks and assembling a small feast.
I back into the door, pushing it open with my ass, and turn with the tray in hand to see Trick half-fucking-naked by the fire.
He’s still shirtless, as he was minutes ago, but now he’s sporting a pair of low slung gray sweats that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
I’ve been a waitress for six years, and I’m damn good at my job, but I nearly drop my tray at the sight of him.
The air crackles between us. Silently, I place my tray on the bar.
“I think the food can wait,” I hear myself say.
“Yea?” There’s a question in his eyes. “You sure? You’ve got to be hungry.”
