Page 62 of Casita Casanova
His chest and torso were carved from steel, firm and hard beneath taut, tan skin. The urge to touch it makes my fingers tremble.
“Touch me, Maryn.”
I swallow hard and shake my head.
“I want you, too, you know.”
Idoknow. That’s also the problem. “We can’t.”
“I’ve never believed people when they say I can’t do something. It’s why I’m the king of—”
My gaze flicks quickly up to his, but his lips are sealed and his eyes give nothing away. I snort softly. “That right there, Cas. That’s the problem.”
He takes a step back and I can breathe again.
“You won’t share anything with me.”
His eyes narrow, but I still can’t read them. “I’m a giver in other ways.”
Oh, good Lord. Help me.“Look,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “I’m a recently-divorced woman who’s been through the ringer. I don’t have time for fuckboys any more than I have time for asshole husbands. Understand? You can turn that shit off from now on. Save it for girls who have time for broken hearts and regret.”
He rocks backward like my words either shocked him or hurt him, but I can’t care either way. I had to make my point. He forced my hand.
We remain in silent standoff for what feels like forever, then he finally inclines his head, his voice soft when he says, “That was a shitty thing to say.”
My mouth opens, but I don’t give him a response or an apology.
“Guess I’ll just have to prove you wrong about me, Maryn.”
With that, he’s out the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ridge
My shift that night at Fast Lane flies by, even without Maryn there to entertain my eyes. It’s the last time I want to work a shift she’s not on. I’ll have to flirt my way into Erinn’s good graces so I can manipulate my schedule to my liking. Shouldn’t be too hard.
“Erinn still here?” I ask Greg when he steps behind the counter.
“Nah, man, she left a while ago. Had to get home to her kid.”
Damn.I doubt Greg will let me switch up my schedule.
“You did great today,” Greg says as I wipe up the bar. “You’ve really taken to the job.” He laughs as he motions to the tip jar on the counter. “And the customers seem to love you.”
No shit, Greg. Everyone loves me.
The place is crowded on Wednesday nights, and I’m in high demand; my section of the long bar remained packed from the start of my shift until closing time.
Greg dumps the tip jars onto the counter and starts counting. “You know that woman in your orientation meeting?”
My ears perk up. Do I ever. I stop mopping up the bar and turn toward him.
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “She’s hot, but she’s not very good at her job.”
I grip the towel to disguise the tightening of my fists.
“She spills more than she sells. I just don’t get it.” He grabs a glass and pours himself a stout. “You just tip… and pour. What’s so hard about that?”
