Chapter 3
MIA
No, but it’s impressive. I get it. Mr. So-Burly-I-Rip-My-Shirts needs his buttons sewn back in every so often, but this is getting ridiculous.
This is the fourth time this week. He owns the laundromat, and he could get me to fix his shirts the whole day, but wouldn’t it be easier if he only bought bigger shirts?
Sometimes we have to accept our size. Been there, done that.
And it gets worse. Why did he have to come to the back? Every other day, he left the shirt, chit-chatted a little, then went on with his morning, coming back later to pick the shirt up. It’s easy to receive the shirt and just do my job. But today? Today Mr. Cox decided he wanted war.
Why is he standing so close while I’m working? Doesn’t he know that freaks everyone out?
Grinding my teeth together, I feel an eye twitching.
I’ve been sitting here in complete silence for the past ten minutes, doing my best to sew his shirt without looking up.
Without being distracted. It’s impossible when his gaze burns the back of my neck.
Did he have to scrutinize my work today? And is this the best way to do it?
Deep breath, Mia. Don’t send your boss to hell.
You need the job. You need the money. Slowly, I crane my neck back to look at him.
It’s not easy, not when he’s so big and I’m seated.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Cox?” There’s not a moment I don’t think of his cock when I say his name.
My gaze shoots to the bulge in his pants, and I can’t help but wonder how big it is.
His face is hard and empty as he looks back at me. “No.”
That’s it. That’s all he has to say. I clear my throat, doing my best to keep the impatience at bay. “Are you sure? Watching me work must be so boring.”
“Not at all.”
Does he think I suck? Is that why he’s watching so intently?
Maybe he’s searching for the right words to humiliate me before he kicks me out.
No. I won’t let that happen. I’m good, I know I’m good, even if this job won’t let me show off my skills.
Even when I do my best to make each piece unique, they’re not details easily seen.
He must think I’m a waste of money. A waste of space, just like my ex did.
The memory of my ex-boyfriend makes my stomach churn. The jerk. After everything I did for him, after accepting his mistreatment, after...
“What are you doing working here?”
I shoot my gaze up. Mr. Cox is still standing next to me, but his eyes narrow as if I’m a puzzle piece that doesn’t belong. “Excuse me?” I ask.
He shifts his weight between his feet, then pulls a chair to sit down.
The legs creak under his weight. For a moment, I think the chair won’t take him.
Mr. Cox leans forward, elbows on his thick thighs, his shirt struggling to stretch across his broad shoulders.
“I’ve seen your portfolio. You’re the only person who sent one for this position. ”
“Mm...” Was this a mistake? It was so long ago. “I just wanted to prove my set of skills.”
“You’re better than this, Ms. Price. You belong in a boutique downtown, not in a laundromat.”
My eyes go round. Is he complimenting me? That was unexpected. I don’t think anyone apart from Kennie ever told me that. I can only stare at him. No words come out. I don’t even know what to say.
“Mm,” I try again. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “Why are you working here?” And he squints at me as if he doesn’t understand. As if he wants to piece me together, to see through me.
But why?
I lick my lips, dropping my gaze back to my work. “It’s not that simple. Many boutiques only hire people with contacts or who went to an expensive college. I didn’t. Everything I know, I learned by myself.”
“And why not go to college then?”
An involuntary scoff escapes me. I fake a cough to cover it up. “College is expensive. I don’t have that sort of money.”
“But you could take out a loan...”
“I already have debts to pay.”
Mr. Cox sits in silence for another couple of minutes, perfectly still, like a statue. He shifts his weight again, then scoots the chair an inch closer. “What kind of debts?”
His question takes me by surprise. I shoot my gaze up at him, my brows climbing my forehead, and I’m so damn shocked at his audacity that I shove the needle straight into my forefinger.
A curse spills from my lips, and I pull my hand back, letting the needle drop.
It sways from side to side, hanging by the thread.
A dollop of red grows from the tip of my finger, and I put the white shirt away as fast as possible, so I won’t stain it.
That would be a nightmare. Showing him how clumsy I am and staining his shirt.
Popping the finger into my mouth, I suck on the iron taste. Then there’s the sound of a growl, and I look up, searching for an animal or a video or something.
There’s only Mr. Cox. His brow furrowed, and he has a painful look on his face for some reason. Is he disgusted by me? I shouldn’t have sucked on my finger.
“Sorry,” I say, slipping the finger out of my mouth. I start to get to my feet, but Mr. Cox holds a hand up, stopping me in place.
“Wait here,” he says in a gravel-like voice. He rushes out of the room, then comes back a second later with the first-aid kit in hand. Mr. Cox sits back down and opens the case, digging into it. What in the world is he doing?
Mr. Cox brings a piece of cotton up, then offers his hand. “Allow me,” he says, and I give him my bleeding hand without a second thought.
The second his meaty fingers wrap around my wrist, electricity shoots up my arm.
Instead of pulling back, he holds on tighter.
Goosebumps trail up my skin, covering my exposed flesh.
Mr. Cox doesn’t move. His gaze fastens on my arm.
His jaw works, then he swallows hard. We’re locked in that second, frozen in time, and I ask myself why.
Why is my body reacting like this? Why do the places he touches me burn like a flame?
I cross my legs and lock them together. Warmth coils low in my body, and I should not be feeling that.
My gaze travels up Mr. Cox’s face, the strong jaw, the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
No, I should not find him handsome. He’s my boss!
And much, much older. If I keep on leering at him, he’ll have another reason to kick me out.
My heart hammering into my ribcage, I drag my gaze away from him.
He takes another moment, but pats the gauze on my finger, then holds it until the flow staunches.
The silence grows unbearable. With unbelievable care for someone his size, he puts a band-aid around the tip of my forefinger, murmurs something I don’t quite grasp, then shoots to his feet and leaves. Just like that.
What in the world just happened?
I stay there, staring at my bandaged finger. Kennie’s footsteps announce her a moment later.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Just pricked my finger.”
She nods because that’s common in this line of work. “Did you say something to Mr. Cox? He looked weird when he left. Even pale.”
I shake my head, gaping at her. “No idea. Maybe he dislikes the sight of blood?”
Her mouth goes round in understanding, and I hold on to that explanation. It has to be it. That’s the only possible reason for him to react like that.
There’s no way a man like him would ever want a girl like me.