More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(20)

But I won’t get to experience any of it. I’ll be too busy working every Friday night, making approximately fifty dollars for my time served.

“You’ll be missed,” he finally says, his voice still low. Intimate. Like we’re sharing a deep, dark secret. “I liked seeing you in the stands at every game.”

I raise a brow, in full on skepticism mode. I can’t help it. He says things like that and I don’t believe him. Yet some part of me deep down inside does believe him. It’s incredibly confusing.

“You didn’t even notice me.”

“I always noticed you, even when you were in band.” He pauses. “I’ve told you that before. Why don’t you believe me?”

The sincerity in his tone almost makes me want to laugh. Or throw myself at him. I’m not sure which option is worse.

I brace my hands on the counter once more, mimicking his position. “I always feel like you’re yanking my chain, Tuttle.”

He smirks, and it’s adorable. Sexy. “Right back at you, Winters.” And then he does the most incredible thing. Without saying a word, without any indication of what he was about to do, he scoots his hand closer to mine, reaching out to graze the top of my hand with just his pinky finger.

I feel that touch all the way down to my toes. It’s like he electrified me. Reminded me that I’m alive. And he’s the only one who can make me feel like that.

The only one.





“Does it always take this long to clean up on a Friday night?” I stuff the mop into the yellow bucket and wring it out, frowning when I notice all the dark brown water floating inside. It’s disgusting. The entire shop was disgusting once we cleared everyone out.

“Nah. Tonight was an exception, with the homecoming game and all. Though it’s always pretty busy when there’s a home game,” Blake says as he finishes cleaning up the toppings station. He made a huge deal about it earlier, like his taking on that particular task was some sort of favor to me, but I don’t know.

Mopping definitely sucks.

We closed over thirty minutes ago and we’re still cleaning. When I finally finish mopping, I guide the bucket out through the back door, dumping the dirty water in the nearby drain. The air is cool, tinged with the faint biting hint of autumn, and my gaze snags on the black Range Rover sitting in the mostly empty lot.

No. It can’t be.

But I think it…might be.

I’m incredulous. Seriously? Really? I’m tempted to march out to that car, knock on the window and demand that he leave, but who am I to do that? It’s a public parking lot.

And maybe it isn’t him. There are a lot of black Range Rovers in the world. I’m just fixated on him so I think he’s everywhere. Like I’m some sort of obsessed psycho.

Pushing all thoughts of him out of my brain, I go back into the shop and head straight to the bathroom, taking out all of my frustration and disbelief on the toilet and sink counter. I scrub the hell out of that bathroom, and by the time I’m finished my forehead is sweaty and wayward strands of hair stick to my cheeks.

In other words, I look awful, but I don’t care. My body’s tired and my muscles ache. I’m ready to go straight home and collapse into bed. At least I can sleep in tomorrow. My next shift doesn’t start until noon.

“You ready?” Blake asks after I put away the cleaning supplies in the small closet.

Turning, I nod. “Yeah, let’s go.”

I gather up my things and head outside with Blake, watching as he locks the front door before shoving the keys into his front pocket. He offers me a faint smile as we start for the parking lot. “You did good tonight, Amanda.”

“Thanks.” I walk right beside him, headed toward our cars, which are parked relatively close to each other far out in the lot. I see the Range Rover out of the corner of my eye, but I ignore it.

I refuse to acknowledge him. Acknowledging means I accept what he’s doing, and I don’t.

“You kept up and tonight was like a trial by fire. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it that busy since we first opened,” he continues.

“Guess I proved my worth then.” I smile at him and he gives me that somber Blake look, with a hint of wonder in his gaze. Like he can’t believe I’m walking with him.

I can feel his pain. I really can.

“Yeah, you did. I’ll have to tell my mom.” His cheeks go red and I almost think it’s cute.

Until I remember that a certain someone is lurking in the parking lot like a stalker.

“That’s my car,” I tell Blake, pointing at my Toyota. Blake nods, waves goodbye and practically sprints to his older Nissan truck. He hops in it, fires up the engine and pulls out of the parking lot without any hesitation whatsoever.

“What a jackass.”

Whirling around, I spot Tuttle leaning against the side of his SUV, looking as casual as he pleases with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his black pants. He’s still wearing the same clothes from earlier, though he looks a little more mussed. Wrinkled. Cuter.

Argh. I hate my thoughts sometimes.

“Are you talking about yourself?” I ask with raised brows.

He inclines his head, a silent acknowledgement, I guess. “He didn’t even bother waiting to see if your car started.”

“It’ll start,” I tell him, sounding more confident than I feel. Sometimes my car won’t start. Back when my older brother was still in high school and drove the car that eventually became mine, he’d always leave the lights on and drain the battery. I try my best to never do that, but sometimes other things happen. The car is almost as old as me. So I can’t always count on it.