C h a p t e r   F i v e :

                                                                                     A C C O S T E D

♀

"New hottie, twelve o'clock!" Bailey sings, prancing over to the main register.

I look up from wiping down tables to see a young construction worker strolling across the parking lot and towards the store. I try to get a good look at his face but it's obscured by a pair of reflective aviators.

While his eyes are fully concealed, mine are on full display for Bailey to watch linger. I continue to wipe the tables down but my attention is no longer on the damp rag or the greasy tabletops.

Instead, I'm more interested in the confidence exuding from Aviators' strides. Never have I seen anyone walk the way he is now: pencil straight, shoulders back, a hand ticking back and forth as if he's swinging a set of invisible keys. His feet follow in time to the flicks of his wrist.

I can't help but wonder what it feels like for someone to be so comfortable in their own skin. What it feels like to walk in such a completely unorthodox, yet alluring, fashion. It's like the world has fallen at his feet, the gravel his red carpet. 

He turns his head and casually stares back at me through the large glass windows -- at least, I think he's staring at me.

My hand slips and the salt and pepper shakers clatter to the floor in a short-lived cloud of black and white, sending grains in every direction. I see it all from my peripheral, but it's much worse than anticipated when I actually look down.

Curtis, our manager, would give me hell for this.

I sigh and hurry to the back in search of a broom.

The "back" is just a hallway-esque area with three sinks, a door to the walk-in cooler, the back door, and a door to Curtis' office. Boxes and cleaning supplies take up whatever room is left.

Bailey shouts playfully from the front, accounting for the wall between us. "By all means, Merci... call dibs!" The excitement in her voice lets me know the 'new hottie' is closing in and even more attractive up close and personal.

The bell chimes from the front door and I can already picture Bailey ogling the guy as he makes his way inside.

"How are we doing today?" I can still hear Bailey through the wall, her voice muffled but amped higher than its usual octave.

I shake my head and remind myself why I'm back here, my ears still perked as I dig through the endless pile of ratty cleaning supplies. I just need one broom that doesn't look like it's gone through the garbage disposal.

After tossing aside countless half-empty spray bottles, muddy rags, and smelly mops, I find what I'm looking for and come to the conclusion that the "back" is in desperate need of organization. 

But I'll save that for a later date.

I quickly make my way out, clutching the broom. Spilled salt and pepper are the only things on my mind as I round the corner.

Only, my race to the spill is short-lived as I run straight into God-knows-who, my eyes instinctively slamming shut as I brace myself for impact.

Please don't be Curtis, please don't be Curtis.

It's a mantra in my head as I gather enough courage to actually look at the culprit.

Slowly, I peel my eyes open.

A fluorescent orange vest glares at me as I glare back at my distorted reflection.

"Uhm," I choke, "you're not supposed to be back here... behind the counter."

Aviators has a gentle hold on my shoulders, his head dipping as he assesses the damage. The reflection in his glasses forces me to join in on the scrutiny.

I try to distract myself as an apologetic frown crosses Aviators' face. It isn't until he speaks do I realize I know him.

"Sorry..." says Jace Miller.

But he doesn't move. 

Normally, when customers are corrected after crossing the 'employee only' perimeter, they immediately snap back to their side of the border. That line is my safe zone. Guaranteed personal space. People respect that.

Only, Jace Miller is now intentionally invading that space.

"You can be sorry..." I gulp, nodding as I narrow my eyes at his chest, "on the other side of the counter." I'm just as surprised as he is by the amount of attitude I manage to fit into one sentence. It's the boldest thing I've said in years.

"Wow," is his breathy retraction, his impeccable eyebrows leaping above the rims of his shades.

I expect him to fire back with something resentful, I deserve it.

"Are you okay?" he asks instead.

Okay?

My heart constricts as I contemplate the answer. Am I? I think back to last night, my tear-stained pillows are answer enough.

My lips part, prepared to betray me.

"Merci, the ICE truck is here!" Curtis calls from his office.

It's enough time for me to recuperate.

"I'm fine," I answer, shooting Jace one last glare before turning around, "and you really can't be back here."

The shakers will have to wait.

🕑

"Seventy four... seventy five..."

The last few months have been kind to Dax. Bronzed skin and streaked hair tell me that, unlike me, he's been out in the sun. Just like the absence of eye bags or sunken cheeks also tell me that,  unlike me, he's had no trouble sleeping.

He clears his throat, "So, how are you?" His voice is much deeper, oozing with testosterone.

"Seventy nine," I say, ignoring the question.

He blinks, pausing as Donovan tosses another bag into the ice chest.

"Eighty..." I continue.

He tries again, "Merce..."

"EIGHTY," I emphasize.

He sighs in defeat and continues the count.

I take the time now to really look at him. He's grown another four inches, finally hitting six foot. Dark freckles dust his face, drawing attention to how angular it really is.

I use to adore that jawline, maybe even worship it.

Maybe I still do. 

The count ends at two hundred bags of ice, only taking fifteen minutes. However, Dax's presence makes it feel like an eternity.

"Sign here, please." he says, handing me the clipboard.

"Please?" I scoff, he's the most ill-mannered person I know.

"Yeah, please. And thank you."

God, I said that out loud.

I look him in the eyes, something I haven't been able to do for quite some time. The flicker of familiarity in them call out to fractions of a distant memory, a pleasant one that, with time, has turned painful. Something constricts within my chest.

"So, you have manners now?" I manage, trying to find some air.

His lips curve into a wry smile, mocking me with his reply. "Well, we've all gotta grow up sometime."

With that, he hops inside the truck with Donovan and drives away.

Grow up?

He has no idea....

I storm back inside, whipping the back door open. 

Curtis' office door is ajar, and Jace is leaning in the doorway... aloof. His arms are crossed, an elbow pressing against the door frame to prop him up as one laced boot crosses the other. 

He is definitely not supposed to be back here.