Page 5 of Stardusted
It washim.
Sky Acosta—broody bartender, unspeakably hot coworker, and subject of my private, embarrassing obsession—stood framed in the prep room doorway, backlit by the dim restaurant lighting like he was the actual embodiment of every overactive fantasy I’d ever denied having.
He was looking right at me. Frowning, actually.
All the blood in my body rushed upward, setting my face on fire. My mouth hung open. My fingers stopped working mid-bundle. I forgot how to breathe.
Of course it was him. Of course it was now.
Chapter 2
THE BABY CHICKEN DISASTER
WhenI said nothing, just gaped at him like a moron, Sky rocked back onto his heels and tipped his head to the side, one hand still holding the door. His tousled, mink-brown hair fell over his eyes.
Eyes that looked a little…bewildered.
Okay, and a touch concerned.
Which was fair. He’d just found me hiding in the prep closet mid-dinner rush, launching conspiracy theories like badly aimed bottle rockets at whoever opened the door.
Conspiracy theories aboutaliens.
Oh my god.
I’d just ranted about aliens to Sky Acosta.
Kill me now. Just bury me in the silverware basket and call it a night.
With a quick look over his shoulder at the dining area, Sky released the door, leaving it propped open. It let in enough light to illuminate the way he swept an assessing glance around the closet. Like he was searching for a hidden-camera prank-show host.
I stared at him, caught in a confusing quagmire of horror and fascination.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here,” he said. His quiet, deep voice filled the small space in a way that made it feel smaller. More…intimate.
When I continued to stare, Sky blinked a couple times and rubbed the back of his neck, which caused his bicep to bunch up beneath his short-sleeved shirt. I noticed because the universe hated me and I, tragically, had eyes. I yanked my attention away from the ripple of muscle…only for it to get caught on the lock of dark hair that’d fallen across his forehead. It looked soft. My fingers itched to brush it back.
He was giving me a strange look now.
Maybe because I still hadn’t answered him.
“Um,” I said brilliantly, finally managing to close my mouth but failing entirely to stop myself from checking him out.
Bartenders didn’t have to wear the ridiculous neon Hawaiian uniforms like the rest of us. I suspected management let it slide as an offering to keep our very skilled, very efficient drink-slingers happy. After all, nobody looked great in lime green.
If anybody was going to, though, it’d be Sky.
His dark shirt clung to the sculpted muscles of his upper body, tapering into a narrow waist and faded jeans. He was built like a swimmer: long-limbed, broad where it mattered. Practically meant for tiny scraps of Spandex.
My mouth went dry. Not only had I launched into a crazy-person rant, I was now gazing directly at his abs and imagining him in a Speedo. ASpeedo. Seriously? What waswrongwith me?
I closed my eyes.
Could a person die of embarrassment? Possibly, if my growing numbness was any indication. At least sweet death would spare me the rest of this interaction.
Alas, I remained alive for the time being. Needing something—anything—to do with my hands, I turned around and dropped the silverware bundle in the general direction of the basket. It bounced off the side and hit the floor with a dramaticclang, unspooling.
Before I could scramble to grab it, Sky spoke again.
