Chapter 12 Violet #2
What does it look like I’m doing?
I reel in my inner bitch and tilt my head toward The Bean Scene’s entrance, then glance down at the nametag pinned to my left boob.
“Working, huh?” he says, stating the obvious.
It takes everything inside of me to keep my eyes from rolling. “Yup. And I’m late. So, if you’ll excuse me—”
He motions toward the red brick building. “Lead the way, Vi.”
Seriously?
I want to kick him in the shin but stop myself. It’ll only make me more late for my shift. Giving in, I march across the parking lot while Ford trails behind like a lost puppy.
“Did Jagger tell you about the deal?” he asks.
“Deal?” I ask over my shoulder.
“About the money—”
“This again?” I shake my head and open the front door of The Bean Scene. “Not interested.”
“Not interested in earning your money back?” Ford tsks as he follows me in without an invitation. “Who are you, and what have you done with the Violet Reeves who kept cockblocking me all because she was so desperate for me to hand over my money?”
It’s official. The audacity of the Harden brothers is on a whole other level.
“You mean my money?” I correct him. So much for having a good day.
This guy is clearly the king of ruining things.
Snatching an apron from behind the counter, I wave at a fellow worker, ignore my manager’s side-eye, and slip the navy blue fabric over my neck.
I tug a little too hard on the straps as I tie them around my waist and cringe.
Okay, ouch. Note to self. Be gentle until the bruise heals. Got it.
Oblivious, Ford simply stares, not taking the bait, but not shutting me down, either. The question is, why? Why bring up the money? Why follow me inside The Bean Scene? Why talk to me at all?
“Are you serious right now?” I demand.
“As ED.”
“What?”
“Erectile dysfunction,” he clarifies. He looks up at the ceiling as if taking a moment of silence for a loved one or something. “It’s a very serious and very common disorder plaguing—”
I lift my hand. “Stop talking, I’m begging you.”
“You’re the one who asked,” he grumbles.
“And I regretted it instantly.”
Undeterred, he sits on one of the barstools closest to the counter and rests his elbows on the hard surface separating us. “So, what do you say about the money?”
“What about it?” I ask, afraid if he sees my desperation, Ford will only hold it over my head like my dad would.
“Violet,” my manager interrupts, “you got the front?”
“Yup.”
“Good, I’m goin’ out for a smoke break.”
“See ya,” I reply while turning back to the pain in the ass in front of me. Biting the inside of my cheek, I stare up at him, choosing my next words as wisely as I can. “Why are you here, Ford? And I mean why are you really here?”
“I wanted some coffee, which I’ve yet to receive, by the way. I’ll take a pumpkin spice latte with whip cream.”
I bite back my snort but get to work ringing up his order. “That’ll be five thousand, six dollars and thirty two cents.” I hold out my hand for his card. “Would you like to leave a tip?”
With a grin, he hands over his black Amex. “You’re clever.” As I charge his card the proper amount because, you know, I have a conscience and don’t want to go to jail for credit card theft, he says, “True or false, your dad’s too much of an ass to pay you back.”
“And here we are with the games again,” I quip, handing him back his card. “Didn’t we already discuss this when I was”—I lift my hands to do air quotes—“cockblocking you?”
Unamused, he steals a cookie from the jar next to the register and takes a bite. “Reel in the snobbery, will you?”
“Why should I? It’s my best feature.”
His jaw tics the same way his brother’s does, and I hate how I notice the similarity.
It’s not like they’re three peas in a pod or anything.
They definitely have their differences. Like their eyes.
Jagger’s are practically coal, while Ford’s are…
I peek over at the man in question again.
His golden-y green eyes roam my face, though I have no idea what he’s looking for or if he’ll find it.
I pause, suddenly feeling…I don’t know. Shy, maybe? It’s just…guys don’t usually look at me like this. Like they want to see what’s beneath the surface. And not in a sexual way. More like…I don’t know. It’s weird. And disarming. And…
“What?” I murmur.
“You know, despite how big of a pain in the ass you are, and despite the box you’ve put me and my brothers in, we’re not as big of dicks as you think, all right?”
“Could’ve fooled me.” I step behind the espresso machine and begin making his drink, going light on the whipped cream because I can.
And hell, he’s lucky I don’t spit in it.
When I’m finished, I hand him the white to-go cup, making sure my smile is syrupy sweet in case my manager catches a glimpse of this interaction. “Have a shitty day.”
He takes the cup. “You got any plans for Halloween?”
My forehead wrinkles. “Halloween?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Just answer the question, Violet.”
Seriously, what is it with these guys and random questions? It’s like I’m doing mental gymnastics anytime I’m in the same room with them.
“Do I have plans for Halloween?” I shrug. “I dunno. Maybe.”
He takes a sip of his drink and smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if analyzing the notes of pumpkin and cloves. Satisfied, he gives me a smile. “Well, if you didn’t have plans, you do now.”
“I do, do I?”
“If you wanna earn your money back”—he leans closer—“and more, then, yeah. You do.”
My lips press together as I hold his stare, unwilling to give in and ask what, exactly, he has in mind while also knowing that if I don’t find the money for a new laptop, I’ll be screwed. “Hmm.”
“Do you know where the old carnival grounds are?” he asks.
“Why?”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
My eyes thin as I analyze him, caving despite my better judgment. “Fine. Yes, I know where the old carnival grounds are.”
“Wait for the text.”
“I didn’t agree to anything.”
“Of course not.” His eyes trail down my body. His examination is missing the heat that seemed to accompany his brother’s. “By the way, I like the hoodie.”
I look down at the stupid, baggy hoodie swallowing my body whole, just now realizing I’d forgotten to take it off when I’d caved earlier. The heater in my car wasn’t working. So, sue me. Folding my arms as if it’ll hide my outfit choice, I glare at Ford instead. “Anything else?”
He reaches for the cookie jar again. “I guess I could use another cookie—”
I swat his hand away. “Go.”
Shrugging, he gives me the side-eye, then heads toward the exit. “See you around, Vi.”
And for some reason I don’t even want to fully admit to myself, I think he just might.