Tinsel (Lark Cove #4)(11)

She dropped the shells in her hand in the pan and hung her head. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Don’t say that,” I snapped, again harsher than I’d meant. Hearing her run herself down was worse than seeing her cry.

“Sorry.”

“Forget it,” I muttered, sweeping the shells into the pan.

“I’ve never done this before. Any of this. Unless it involves shopping or makeup or my hair, I’m basically useless.”

I huffed and positioned the dustpan. Sofia’s eyes were on the floor, her chin dropped to her chest, so I hooked my finger under it and tipped her head back.

The minute her doe eyes met mine, my heart squeezed.

Those crying eyes.

They were going to ruin me.

Sofia’s eyes were a kaleidoscope. Every piece of happiness or shred of pain, she spun for the world to see in those chocolate pools. She didn’t keep anything for herself, no secrets or hidden agendas.

Her eyes were so full of hopelessness at the moment, I’d do anything to make that look go away.

Letting go of her chin, I slid my palm up her face. Her breath hitched as a firestorm ran up my arm.

Why was I touching her?

I didn’t drop my hand.

The heat from my touch colored her cheeks, and her chest heaved underneath that flimsy sweater. Her pink tongue darted out between her lips, wetting the bottom one as her eyes held mine.

The hopelessness was gone—I’d accomplished one thing at least. Except the lust in her gaze was exponentially more dangerous.

She was attracted to me. I knew it just like I knew how to mentally tally up three beers, a vodka soda and a shot of Jack. She was attracted to me, and I was attracted to her.

Panic sent my hand flying away from her face. I stood in a flash, staggering back a few steps and crunching a peanut shell under my boot. Then I turned and put the bar, my cutting board and knife between us.

“When you finish with the floors, you can take a bar rag and wipe off all the tables.”

“All right.” Sofia nodded and went back to work.

It took her three times as long as it would have taken me to finish sweeping the floors. I used up every shred of patience by not ripping the broom out of her hand and finishing the job myself. We hadn’t even opened yet, but my mood was shot by the time she walked over to the rag, pinching it between her thumb and index finger.

Her nose scrunched up at the scent of bleach on the white terry cloth. Holding it as far away from her clothing as possible, she walked over to a booth against the far wall and started wiping.

What the hell was taking her so long? Couldn’t she hustle it up? The last thing I needed was her taking an hour to clean the tables, not only because we were opening in ten minutes, but because as she bent over, the hem of her sweater rose up, giving me the perfect view of her ass encased in those hot-as-fuck leather pants.

I concentrated on the neon sign in the window as she cleaned, but my eyes kept drifting down to her backside.

When she left that booth for the next, she’d missed all four corners of the booth’s table and left a puddle in its center.

I frowned. I’d have to either redo it myself or teach her the right way to clean a damn table. My cock, which was begging to become Sofia’s babysitter, loved the idea of bending over her, covering my hand with hers and using long, sure strokes to clean that table.

“Shit,” I muttered, making an adjustment to my dick as I went around the bar. I walked to the booth, swiped the rag from Sofia’s hand and nudged her out of the way with my hip. “Like this.”

After cleaning the booth’s table and another one, I handed back the rag.

“Sorry.” Her eyes were full of tears again.

I didn’t comfort her this time. Instead, I strode out of the bar, down the hallway and straight into Thea’s office, where I took a red marker and circled January eighth.

Ten days.

It might as well have been a year.





Today had been the most humiliating day of my life. No contest.

Reading the magazine article had brought me to an all-time low. But after spending the day in the Lark Cove Bar with a gorgeous man who loathed everything about my existence, I’d found a new rock bottom.

It was here, on the floor by the dishwasher, where I was hunched over to pick up shards of broken glass.

“I’m sorry,” I told Dakota for the fifth time.

He threw a cracked glass in the large garbage can. It shattered against the glasses he’d already tossed in there. “Glass comes out of the dishwasher hot.”

“I know that.” Now.

“Open the door. Let it cool. Then take stuff out,” he snapped.

I stayed quiet but nodded so he’d know I’d heard him.

Dakota had ordered me to unload the dishwasher about five minutes ago. I’d opened the door and been immediately engulfed in a billow of steam. My makeup was probably running and the fine hairs at my temples were no doubt in frizzy kinks.

I’d batted the steam away then pulled out the top rack. Obviously, I knew the inside was hot because of the steam. But I didn’t realize the glasses would be scorching, not just warm.

I’d never unloaded a dishwasher before.

The instant my hand touched one of the pint glasses, my fingertips melted. I yelped and jerked my hand away, but as I was retreating from the dishwasher, my heel caught on one of the rubber floor mats.