“Yeah, oh.” They slide back up to meet mine.
“I’m sorry, but in my defense, I only told one person.” I hold up a finger, and his eyes narrow on it between us.
“Yeah, and as usual with women, that shit went viral in about two point five seconds.”
“Did you say this is your club?” I ask, leaning back, not sure I heard him correctly. He looks young. Not as young as me, but definitely young.
“Yeah.”
“Then maybe you should think about having a couple more restrooms put in.”
“Thanks for the advice, sweetheart. I’ll be sure to get on that.”
Even though I know he’s being sarcastic, I still smile and chirp, “You’re welcome.”
His gaze lowers, skimming over my tight black dress. Without thinking, I cross my legs, causing my dress to ride up my thighs, and his jaw seems to twitch in response. Even though I tell myself I feel nothing, I still feel the flutter between my legs, and my heartbeat seems to pick up speed.
“Fuck,” he rumbles right before his gaze meets mine once more.
“If that’s all, I’m kind of busy trying to get one of the bartenders to notice me,” I tell him, and his eyes narrow; then he lifts his head and lets out a loud whistle.
“What can I get for you, boss?” a man asks behind me, and I turn to look over my shoulder at one of the three bartenders behind the bar.
“Water,” the guy in my personal space orders, and I frown.
“Got it.” The bartender nods, reaches below the bar, and sets a bottle of water on the wooden surface before moving away.
“I actually wanted a glass of wine,” I state, turning to face the man who’s too hot, too close, and smells too good for my sanity.
“What’s your name?” he asks, reaching around my side and then handing me the bottle after he’s unscrewed the lid.
“Pardon?” I take it from him.
“Your name—what is it?”
“Chrissie,” I say, taking a sip and enjoying the way the cold water feels on my throat as I swallow.
“Chrissie.” My name rolls off his tongue slowly. “Nice to meet you, Chrissie. I’m Gaston, but most people call me Gus.”
I blink. “Did you just say your name is Gaston?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, horrified. “You’re like the worst villain ever.”
“What?” He looks equal parts offended and confused.
“No one looks like Gaston. No one cooks like Gaston. No one refuses to read a good book like Gaston,” I sing.
He chuckles. “Pretty sure those aren’t the words to that song, babe.”
“You get the point,” I mumble.
“Yeah.” He suddenly seems closer than before. “I’m guessing by your getup that one of your girlfriends is getting married and you’re here celebrating with her.”
“Why do you say that?” I pretend to look confused, like I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“I don’t know . . . maybe the penises gave it away?” He smiles.
Lord, he has a great smile. Full lips that showcase his straight white teeth. And with him this close, I can smell his earthy yet dark and mysterious scent. God, I need to get away from him, and soon.
“Obviously, you are not up to date on what’s trending,” I say, wondering if my voice really sounds as breathy as I think it does. “Penises are all the rage this season.”
“Aren’t penises always the rage?” he asks with a straight face.
I start to laugh, then stop when I notice he’s studying me with an odd expression on his face. “What?”
“What?” he repeats, never taking his eyes from mine.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because I really fucking want to kiss you, but I’m thinking that would not go over very well, especially with every one of my employees watching us right now.”
I ignore his comment about wanting to kiss me, because I can’t deal with that, and focus on what he said about people watching us. I look around, feeling heat creep up my cheeks. There are at least a dozen or more people watching us. “Um . . . I think maybe you should go away,” I suggest.
“Did you just say I should go away?” he asks, sounding surprised.
I meet his gaze once more and nod. “Yeah, I mean, you’re the boss. You’re not exactly setting a good precedent with your employees by standing around and chatting.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” His lips twitch.
“I’m being serious.” I nod. “I mean, I talk to my customers at the bakery all the time, but that’s a little different. I mean, no one comes to my bakery, gets smashed, and ends up having a one-night stand. Or as far as I know, that hasn’t happened. Not that you can get smashed eating baked goods,” I mumble.
“You own a bakery?”
“Yeah, the Sweet Spot, on Main Street.”
“The Sweet Spot?” He gets the same look in his eyes that every man gets when they hear the name of my shop.
“I sell cakes and cookies and stuff, not sex toys. So you can get that look off your face.” I roll my eyes.
He grins, and I have to admit it’s way better than his regular smile. Still, I need to end this. I know guys like him: guys who look great and are pros at having a conversation. They know how to make a woman feel validated and important . . . up until the morning after, when you wake up next to them. After that, all their good qualities fly out the window, and you’re left wondering what happened to the guy you met the night before.
Been there, done that, and I’m so not going back for seconds or thirds.
“I need to go find my friends.” I hop off the barstool, then look up at him once more. “Thanks for the water, and it was really nice meeting you.”
Before he can reply, I leave him without a second glance.
I bob my head to the music playing in the background while rolling balls of snickerdoodle dough through cinnamon sugar, dropping each one on a cookie sheet. When I hear the chime for the front door, I stop what I’m doing to listen. Rachelle and Aubrey are both out front, but they might be too busy to greet the customer who just came in, since for some reason Wednesdays are one of the busiest days at the shop.
When I hear “Holy cow!” screeched loudly in unison, I quickly wash my hands and head out to see what’s going on. Standing at the counter, holding the largest, most beautiful bouquet I have ever seen, is Mikey, the older gentleman who runs orders for the florist down the block.
“Hey, Mikey.”
“Hey, girl.” He smiles. “I think you’ve got an admirer.”
“What?”
“These are for you, hon,” he says, and I feel both girls turn to look at me.
“What?” I repeat. I expected him to say the bouquet was for one of my employees. Both Rachelle and Aubrey are in high school. They are beautiful and on the cheerleading team . . . or squad—whatever you want to call it. And judging by the number of cute boys who come in here while they’re working, they’re both popular.
“These are for you,” he repeats as he sets the flowers on the counter. “Can you sign this?”