“Nah, stay.” I wave her off, trying to wipe the sweat from my forehead with a paper towel. I’ve had a headache for the past two hours, and even the back of my eyeballs hurt.
“Maybe you can swing by for dinner? Alex will be happy to have you over.” At the mention of his name, a rosy color spreads across her cheeks, and it’s adorable. My friend is so in love, and I adore Alex a little more for making Freya so happy.
“Sure, sounds like a good idea.” I force a smile through my pounding headache.
“Tonight, then? After your shift?” She looks so hopeful that I don’t have the heart to refuse her.
“Of course. I’ll be there.” I salute her with two fingers.
She brightens up and leaves, waving her hand at me and Marina, who’s absolutely overwhelmed in the kitchen.
“We need another waitress and one more cook, Marina. For real this time. You need a break from cooking.” I say as I come to grab another plate from the kitchen.
“But they’re my pancakes!” She makes it sound like I’m trying to take her firstborn for a debt.
“Nobody’s touching your pancakes, but a new cook can help you with other dishes.” Seeing the look of pure horror on her face, I add, “Following your recipes, of course.”
She wipes her sweaty forehead with a paper towel, smudging her foundation, and I bite my lip to prevent a smile from spreading over my face—Marina always has a full face of makeup on. She always takes care of her skin and body. I might have to take a few tips from her. Better earlier than later. She looks gorgeous for her age. “You might be right.”
“Excuse me, what did you just say?” My eyes widen in shock, and I feel a sharp pain from my headache. “Did you just agree with me? Is it doomsday?” I comically look around.
“Don’t push your luck.” She lovingly smacks me with a towel. “We’ll talk about that after the shift.” She looks outside to the floor. “Or tomorrow.”
I chuckle and go back to serving the nonstop flow of customers. Good for the business and tips, but so bad for my poor back.
By the end of the day, I’m famished. I can barely stand, and my feet and butt hurt like hell. I get so excited at the prospect of going home, right up until the moment I remember that I promised Freya I’d stop by for dinner. I groan. Why did I agree to that? Why?
I’ll tell you why. Because I love Freya. She became my ‘bestest’ friend. We clicked the very first time we met, as she isn’t one to beat around the bush and is never scared to call me on my shit. I knew she was different—and now here we are.
That’s why I’m driving my half-dead, enfeebled body to Alex’s cabin after a long shift, praying that Justin wasn’t invited. Or was. He’s like a mosquito bite: scratching it feels so good in the moment, but it’s terrible for you long-term. I always make the poor choice to just keep on scratching.
I groan, grabbing the steering wheel tighter. It’ll be a very difficult itch not to “scratch” if I plan on staying friends with Freya, considering Justin’s everywhere Alex is, and Freya is everywhere Alex is. You get the picture.
I'm almost at Alex's cabin, and whenitappears in front of me, I groan loudly. Justin’s truck. Luck isn’t on my side today.
For the last three weeks, our interactions have been nonexistent. I still see him around town, but he avoids me just as much as I avoid him. One time though, we bumped into each other at the grocery store. He was like a brick wall, and I almost went tumbling down. While trying to prevent my body from hitting the floor, he snaked his arm around my waist and pulled me to him.
That was the first time I smelt him since the encounter at the diner. I wish I never did, though. Now, I’m dreaming of his masculine, musky smell with a note of engine oil forever engraved into his skin. Was it turning out to be my kryptonite? I’m doomed. Ever since, my usual pictures of shirtless Henry Cavill haven’t done it for me anymore—now I need the real deal sexy lifetime asshole-mechanic with an intoxicating smell. The one whose lips I can’t stop thinking about being so close to me. But the moment I remember the look of horror and disgust on his face when he realized it wasmehe was holding at the store, or was close to kissing at the diner, pushing me away like I had a highly contagious disease—yeah, just like that, I’m back to Henry Cavill.
That moment of our almost-kiss… that was something I could never dream of. He almost kissed me, and if not for the car outside, I would have let him. Why would I resist when I’ve been dreaming about that for so long? Is he toxic for me? Hell yes. Would this knowledge prevent me from tasting his lips only once? I don’t think so, no. I’d let it happen just once, just so I know how it feels. That’s it. I’m positive that the craving would be satisfied after that. Just one little taste.
I bump my forehead on the steering wheel—who am I kidding? I know Freya is trying her best to bury the hatchet between us by inviting us both to dinner in the hope we reconsider our mutual hatred, but it’s just not possible. The situation between us screams not only animosity but also awkwardness, making everything more complicated.
In the last couple of weeks, I’ve gotten the feeling from Freya that she seessomethingthat I don’t, and I can tell that she’s trying with all her might to prove it to the both of us. But you can’t prove something that simply isn’t there.
Either way, I got sucked into dinner tonight regardless, so I park my car and go to knock on the door. Right before my knuckles meet the wood (the real woody wood, not the other kind), it swings inward, and instead, my fist meets Justin's chest. Its resemblance to hardwood isn’t nonexistent, actually.
He’s standing there with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, the muscles under the short sleeves of his white T-shirt bulging as he brings the cup to his lips. He takes a sip and then pointedly looks down at my hand, which is still on his chest. I quickly yank it away as if it was burned.
“Hi, Justin,” I offer in a neutral voice.
Justin doesn’t say anything, just looks me up and down. The corner of his lip dips as if he isn’t happy with what he sees. Tough luck, buddy. I wear black leather leggings, dark olive Docs, and a baggy olive off-shoulder shirt. Last I checked myself in the mirror, I looked hot as hellandbadass. Precisely the combination he doesn’t go for. He goes for hot posh girls. “What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is menacing, a far cry from the gentle whisper I heard him speak before.
“You know what,” I say with a defeated sigh and attempt to brush past him. His frame is solid and unmoving, so I put my hand on his bicep and try to push him out of my way. He doesn’t budge—just looks down at me. I'm five-four, and he is about six-two or six-three. Normally, I'd be thrilled with that height difference because I like them tall and big (to watch them in their natural habitat,that’s it), but not today. Today his height seems intimidating. I press harder on his arm, but again, he doesn’t budge.
“Justin, for fuck’s sake!” Freya yells from the kitchen, and only then does he move out of the way.
“Asshole,” I not-so-quietly grumble, and his brows rise in surprise.That’s right, you’re an asshole.I’ve always tried to refrain from saying overtly rude things to him just so I don’t aggravate the situation more, but right here and now, I decide that I am done. That masculine scent of his that’s been stuck in my head enters my nostrils, telling me to climb him like a tree… and maybe even hump his leg a little. In an attempt to not embarrass myself by letting him know how much his smell impacts me, I hold my breath as I push past him, heading to the kitchen where Freya’s trying to fix the food. There's a better than average chance that we'll all die, considering Freya in the kitchen is a guaranteed disaster. Her food might come out poisonous. She can cook one dish—one. Lasagna. And that’s it. Anything else coming out of her cookbook could be used as biological warfare.
