Chapter 4 #2
At that, he hesitates, and if I’m not mistaken, pales a little before he turns his back to me. “Did anything happen? I locked you in.”
“Not the point.” The campervan is on private property—my property, since Travis didn’t manage to sell that, as far as I know—and I doubt anyone knows it’s there. It’s not visible from the highway. “You should’ve slept there and left me here.”
“Did Bigfoot try to steal your knock-off Louboutins?” he asks as he grabs a bottle and puts it where it doesn’t belong.
Oh, hell no. Also, rude of him to point out my cheap shoes.
It’s not like I can afford the real thing.
“Like she could fit my size sevens,” I say as I quickly slip around the bar.
I grab the bottom of the bottle of rum as he lifts it, stopping him, and when he turns to face me, I move right into his space.
He backs into the bar as I step between his feet, trapping him.
I’m eye level with his collarbone, staring at those two undone buttons.
Damn it. He smells good. The warmth of his body and the light citrus spice of his cologne go right to my head, along with an unwanted blast of pheromones. And here I am with Bloody Mary breath. My shower was a wipe down with a damp cloth. No wonder he didn’t stand his ground.
“My eyes are up here, sweetheart,” the smug motherfucker says.
“Let go,” I say softly, finally looking up from the notch of his collarbone. I expect anger or disgust, but his expression is one of boredom, his honeyed eyes regarding me coolly.
It’s worse than anger or disgust.
His fingers uncurl from the bottle, and he sidesteps away from me. I stick the rum back where it belongs, turning to see him up on his tiptoes, sliding my jar of maraschino cherries onto the top shelf, well out of my reach.
Bastard.
He turns toward me, no triumph on his face, and leans against the bar as I do the same. We both cross our arms and both immediately drop them to the side when we realize we’re mirroring each other.
“If we’re sharing the bar”—for now—“we need to set some rules.” I cross my arms again. “I want my apartment back.”
“No. But, out of the kindness of my heart, I’ll let you stay in my camper rent-free. You can have my spare key.” He digs in his pocket, pulls out the key, and holds it out.
I didn’t expect him to give up the apartment, but his flat refusal sparks my irritation. “What if we shared the apartment?”
When I don’t take the key, he tosses it onto the bar behind me. “No.”
He’s unmoved by every single argument I make, and after over half an hour of trying, I have to admit defeat. For now. “I want daily access to my shower, and all my boxes brought to the camper.”
He nods. There’s no flicker of victory in his eyes, no smug smile. How can the absence of something irritate me even more?
“No changes without consulting me first,” I say. “That includes the menu, the organization behind the bar, and any repairs. If you want to replace a lightbulb, I want to know. I want access to the office and all bookkeeping, inventory, orders—all documentation.”
It’s subtle, but his eyes narrow a bit at that.
Whatever he’s doing here, it’s not running Gallo’s out of love for the business. He might look squeaky clean with his expensive business casual clothes, but he might be deeper into shady shit than my cousin.
And there are those duffel bags under the bed. I need to find out what’s inside so I know what I’m up against.
“Anything else?” he asks dryly. He grips the lip of the bar behind him, and the movement is the only reason my eyes flick down his torso to his hands.
His body is a dream, long and lean, and knowing what’s behind that button-down shirt and those tailored pants has me biting my lower lip.
He holds himself with so much control—no fidgeting or shifting his weight, no distractions—but there’s a restrained power I can sense more than see.
Does he ever let that control off the leash when he fucks?
One blond eyebrow arches as the corners of his lips tip ever so slightly up. “Ms. Gallo? Something you’d like to share with the class?”
My face heats. The last thing I need is to look desperate. “My office is a fuck-free zone, as is every other square inch of the bar. Take your partners upstairs.”
Something that might be disappointment crosses his face so briefly that I almost doubt I saw it. He pushes himself off the bar. “Noted. Anything else?”
“I want everything put back where it was. The longhorn skull, the prayer candles, the pictures, all of it, but especially the cornicello.” That little golden horn-shaped charm has been in my family for generations.
Maybe it can’t ward off shitty men, but it’s supposed to protect against bad luck—and right now, I need all the luck I can get.
“Also, Wednesdays are meat raffle nights, and I don’t see any advertisement up on the chalkboard. ”
“And this, Ms. Gallo, is where you’re going to have to learn that sharing means compromising.”
I give him my best wicked smile. “Something tells me you’ll come around to my way of doing things, Mr. Bastien.”