Page 19 of King of Pain
My jaw drops, but he presses on, his tone teasing but light. “Oh, I should’ve asked, is it okay if I call you that? Don’t want you to take my head off.”
He’s taken to calling me Ant now, and I’m not going to pretend I don’t like the shortened version of ‘Antny’. Truth is, I like it a little too much.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, fumbling with a feature artist display.
“Fine, huh?” He smirks, leaning against the shelf like he’s got all the time in the world.
“You always this quiet, or just at work?”
“I talk when I have something to say,” I reply, my voice clipped.
Chance lets out a low chuckle. “Fair enough. Guess that means I’ll have to do the talking.”
He leans back further against the shelf, clearly not content with the silence between us and picks up a Rubik’s Cube, turning it over in his hands as if inspecting it.
“So, Ant,” he starts, his tone casual but full of curiosity, “your last name…Pacini,” he says slowly, brow furrowing slightly. “Am I saying that right? Pah-chee-knee?”
I nod, trying to play it cool, but the way my name sounds coming out of his mouth—wrapped in that deep voice and slight Boston accent—has me shifting on my feet.
Is it hot in here?
“Yeah, you got it. Pah-chee-knee.”
“Sounds exotic,” he says, his grin widening. “Italian, right?”
“Yeah. One hundred percent. Third generation.” I grab another stack of inventory off the cart we brought out, trying to seem busy, but Chance doesn’t let up.
“Third generation? So, like, your grandparents were immigrants?”
“Yup. Both sides.”
He seems genuinely intrigued. “Alright, so you’re full-on Italian. Do you cook, or is that just a stereotype?”
“Yeah, I cook,” I admit, stacking the vinyl neatly. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m not feeding you.”
“Oh, come on,” he teases, leaning against the shelf. “I’m a great dinner guest. I’ll even bring dessert.” Then, with a playful smirk, he pumps his eyebrows suggestively a few times.
I shake my head, refusing to take the bait and pretend the heat creeping up my neck is from anything other than him.
“Alright, fine,” he says, switching gears. “Kathy mentioned you play football for ASU. What do your teammates call you? You’ve gotta have some kind of nickname, right?”
I pause, hesitant. The real origin of my team nickname isn’t exactly my favorite thing to share, but Chance’s grin is too smug for his own good. I know he won’t let it go.
“PacMan,” I say finally, keeping my voice even.
“PacMan?” he repeats, his grin widening. “That’s amazing. Is it just because of your last name or is there another reason?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, already regretting telling him.
“Oh—no, no, no,” he says, clearly delighted. “There’s a story here. What is it?”
“Nope. No story. Just my last name,” I tell him, hoping he won’t press any further.
I think my eyebrows are sweating.
Can eyebrows even sweat?
Chance laughs, clearly delighted by this revelation. “PacMan,” he says again, his brow furrowed. Then, to my surprise, he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not calling you that.”
