Texting With the Enemy (Digital Dating #1) - Marika Ray Page 0,17
hot sunny day.
“Nope. That won’t work. You have to smile at the customer, El.” Boston clapped his hands and made me jump.
I guessed it also made me inhale sharply because the next thing I knew, one of the buttons on my polo decided enough was enough and shot straight toward Boston, pinging him on the chest before falling to the floor.
“Oh!” I gasped, one hand going to the gaping hole on my shirt, the other covering my gaping mouth.
Boston made a noise that sounded an awful lot like he was being strangled. He bent down and picked up the button, putting it on the counter and looking away. “Maybe you should just unbutton it and put that last button out of its misery.”
My face flamed a thousand degrees. I looked down to see the remaining button sweating bullets. I took pity on it and unbuttoned it, which saved the button from popping off, but gave a wider expanse of cleavage than I preferred in a work setting. In a stroke of genius, I remembered a tool that would save the day. Spinning around, I took the clip off the cute bulletin board behind me that housed all the laminated wine menus, clamping it onto my shirt instead. A little bulky with a clip holding my polo shirt together, but it would do in a pinch.
“Hi and welcome to The Cunning Ham!” I said brightly, ready to get back into the role play. Probably came off a little too brightly, but I had a wardrobe malfunction to overcome.
Boston inhaled through his nose sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face again before turning back to the bar. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here with me, the hot mess he’d told me I was when I interviewed with him previously. “What kind of wines do you have here?”
My hands shook, but I was able to slide a plastic menu toward him. “We have quite a few. You look like a red wine kind of guy to me. Am I right?”
A hint of a smile appeared around his mouth and I mentally high-fived myself for keeping my cool. “I am, yes.”
“Great. Our cabernet has a base of blackcurrant, oh-so-subtle licorice, and a hint of blueberry.” I grabbed a glass and poured what I thought was the right amount for a tasting. I slid the glass over to Boston, who swirled it around before sniffing and tasting.
“Not bad. I think there’s some cherry in there too.”
Belatedly, I remembered he told me that. That had been right around the time I was debating if the flecks in his eyes were brown or golden.
“You have a good nose for this,” I murmured, quickly picking myself up and moving on. “How about trying a lighter-bodied red? This is our pinot noir.”
I poured another glass and slid it toward Boston. I must have hit a knot in the wood because the glass snagged and tipped in the blink of an eye. The red wine splashed out of the glass and onto Boston, hitting basically the same spot on his chest the button had. The glass rolled but didn’t shatter. I gasped in horror while Boston jumped back a split second too late.
He stood there staring down at his ruined shirt, his chest rising and falling like a bull before it charged. I was frozen to the spot, ready to be fired for the second time that night. The blood red wine dripped to the floor, making a mess at his feet. When he lifted his head and met my stare, I felt horrible at the anger I saw there. It was tinged with what I could have sworn was exhaustion. An odd mix considering the guy was CEO of a wine distribution in an up-and-coming area of Napa County. How bad could things be as a rich business owner?
He pushed out a big sigh, leaving only the exhaustion. His shoulders dropped and I burst into action a few seconds too late, grabbing the towel and coming around the bar. I swiped at his shirt, finding solid muscles behind the soaked cotton.
“Here. Let me help,” I gushed. “I’m so sorry. The glass just slipped. The wood is very knotty. Or naughty, depending how you look at it, really. I’ve heard a little hydrogen peroxide will take the stain right out. Or I can buy you a new one. No problem.” I kept pawing at him, managing only to widen the stain and bring back the anger on