Page 30 of A Minute More

My eyes roam over him, taking in every inch of his body, and when he catches me looking, I glance away quickly, feeling so fucking dumb.

But I’m glad he’s back, and with his reappearance, the obsession I have with him has grown. I can’t fucking peel my eyes away from him. Especially his mouth. That mouth was on mine.

“You gonna ask him?” Jude whispers loudly.

I glower at my friend, not wanting Simon to know what I’ve been thinking about the past several days.

The hobby of kissing him.

“Shut up,” I mutter and then get back to work, making the sandwich orders that were called in. The line of customers grows and we all work tirelessly until it dies down and I’m left with my thoughts once again.

I need to nip this in the bud, just chop it right off, but with him standing so close, my eyes can’t help but be drawn to those lips once more.

Those lips were on me.

Male lips.

And I didn’t move away, like Simon is doing now. He’s brushing past me and moving to the breakroom. I want to follow, but I can’t. Work needs to be done.

“You can’t keep your eyes off of him,” Jude says, and I sock him in the shoulder to shut him up. Because yeah, he’s stating the obvious. No need to do that, Jude. I already know. Everyone knows. I have a billboard sitting on top of my head advertising it.

“Don’t be mad at me that he’s totally ignoring you.”

“I know,” I hiss. “Why’s he doing that?”

“Maybe you were a shit kisser.”

“I am afabulouskisser,” I reply and then feel my spirits sinking. Because I really didn’t give it my all. I mostly just stood there with my mouth open. Like a cavernous wet hole.

Fuck. Maybe Jude’s right.

This sits with me, stewing and simmering until I’m an anxious fucking wreck. When I finally corner Simon in the breakroom, minutes before it’s time for him to leave, I just tumble into him, pushing him up against the wall and breathing against his cheek.

“What the fuck?” Simon whispers, his chest heaving, his breathing growing labored as I hold him against the wall. “Let me go.”

I can’t. My hands seem to tighten almost painfully on his shirt, my body pressing firmly into his.

“Are you going to punch me?” he asks softly, fear lacing his tone, and that’s the only thing that seems to break through this swirl of irrational emotions I have.

I let out a shaky breath and shake my head, wetting my lips in the process.

“No, fuck. I want to…I want….” I can’t get the words out, can’t quite admit it just yet, and before I can say anything, he’s shoving me away and jogging out of the shop as fast as he can. I watch him go, my entire body shaking with adrenaline.

It’s then that it hits me.Oh fuck, what have I done?

Fumbling with my phone, I pull it out and shoot him a message.

Me:

I’m sorry.

He doesn’t respond. Not that I expect him to. I just assaulted him at work. I’m going to get fired, and I deserve it. The boss-man is pretty strict about harassment. I mean, we’ve only met him a handful of times, but he’s made that very fucking clear.

I’m a dead man walking.

“Wes!” Jude calls, and I move into the main room of the shop. There are a few customers, so I get back to making these goddamn sandwiches. Honestly, I scowl, why can’t people make their own fucking lunch. A ten-dollar sandwich isn’t that much better than what you can get at home.

I angrily slap one together, finding myself smashing a tomato in a rage, the guts splattering on the counter. The man whose sandwich I’m making arches an eyebrow at me, and I flush from head to toe. Oh fuck, I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. I’m rage-killing fruits now…or is it a vegetable?

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