Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
He recovers quickly, though. “G’morning,” he calls out to Nessa.
“Good morning to you too, sugarbear,” she drawls in a Southern accent that’s nothing like her own. She sounds like Blanche on the Golden Girls reruns I used to watch with my grandmother. “And it is one fiiiiiiine mornin’ now.” She lets her eyes lick up and down his body in a way that’d have me pissed as hell if someone did it to me, but Kyle holds still, probably flexing a bit while Nessa looks her fill.
Unless that’s what his arms naturally look like in that tight T-shirt.
Frustrated with my own traitorous train of thought, I growl to myself and spin on my tennis shoe covered toe with a squeak. I don’t want to hear the rest of their conversation. I have more important things to do. Or that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Back in the kitchen, I check the food I’ve already started for today. The beans are going well, and I check the salt level before putting the lid back on. Next, I stir the big, twenty-gallon container of horchata that sells out every time I make it. Then, I scan the veggie haul Nessa delivered, grouping them into bunches for chopping. I’ve made quick work of slicing my way through a dozen limes for garnish when there’s a knock on my door.
“Hi, Miss Becerra,” Kyle says, grinning like my name is somehow funny to him. Or maybe it’s that it sounds needlessly formal when we’re both in work clothes at eight-thirty in the morning with the smell of limes wafting in the air. “How’re you doing?”
“What do you want, Kyle?” I ask, not even looking up from my cutting board as I slice another lime in half and toss it in the pile.
“I was hoping to put in an order,” he says. “Think I can get lunch for my crew? They stayed out of your way today.”
He says it like I’m supposed to be grateful he’s buying from me, and he’s definitely waiting for me to praise his parking job. Too bad I’m not the girl who’ll give you head pats and cookies for the bare minimum. I’m also not the girl who’ll put up with his shit. “Not happening. I’m not cooking for you or for them when you’re making my day hell,” I say as I stomp toward the door. I glare at him through the screen, taking special delight in his dropped jaw and wide with shock eyes. I lean to the side, looking around his stupidly wide shoulders before meeting his gaze again. “And your bumper’s still over my property line.”
Before Kyle can say anything, I turn and kick my door closed with a nifty little spin kick. I might be insane considering I’ve never turned down an order, not a single time. Each order, every dollar that comes in, is too precious. As it is, I need to scrape the bottom of my pots each and every day to keep profits adding up and my business bankrolled for another day.
That doesn’t mean I need his money, though, especially when it smacks of an insincere apology. I was taught that if you fuck up, you start with two words. I’m sorry. Then, after you’ve said that, you can back it up by making things right. I don’t need some asshole hiding behind a get-out-trouble smile and empty gestures.
Kyle stands outside my door for a few moments, clearly thinking about knocking again. But he’s smart enough to recognize that doing so is going to get the door slammed right back in his face, maybe with a face full of habanero sauce for good measure. Instead, he turns and heads to work while I put my head down and get back to my day.
Five pounds of onions aren’t going to chop or caramelize themselves.
Later…
“Hey there, Dani, is the food as hot as you are today?”
Straight-faced, I lift the plastic bag of half a dozen burritos I’ve got wrapped and ready to go for Joshua, waving it back and forth.
I’m used to some of the guys flirting with me. The ones who are only playing, I play right back. They’re usually the older guys who’re looking for a bright spot in their day or a kind word from a sweet young thing and don’t actually want anything from me. Like a date or a fuck. It’s a friendly give and take, nothing more.
Then there are guys like Joshua.
When they flirt, it’s serious. They want me, in whatever way, shape, form, or fashion they can get me. At all of maybe nineteen years old, Joshua has decided I’m his dream girl, whatever that means.
At first, I tried being polite, but he didn’t take my ‘not interested’ as an answer. So I moved on to ‘no’, then ‘fuck no’. He still thinks I’m playing hard to get, despite my progressively unsmiling, downright rude responses.