The walk back to my apartment goes by in a blur. If it weren’t for Mel’s arm looped around mine, I think I actually might float away. Or possibly keel over. Because Reid?! Of all the people to end up with in a side alley with my clothes pushed to the side, he was not on the short list. Or the long one. But one thing’s for sure—Reid…made me feel things. A lot of things. With his damn fingers. I’m honestly afraid what other monumental feats he could do with other appendages.

And just like that, it’s over. I’m back home, staring at my counter covered in piles of dirty dishes, itching to get out of these boots and into my fuzzy unicorn slippers.

Just as I’m about to climb into bed, a text buzzes through.

Mom: Plane lands at six fifteen Thursday night. We’ll have our usual dinner. See you in three weeks.

My stomach drops. Shit. Is it that time of year already? I totally forgot about my parents coming into town. They want to see my progress and do their quarterly soul-sucking endeavor. They’re my own personal Dementors. Except that unlike the magical ones, I can’t just wave a wand and banish them. I still resent never getting my letter to Hogwarts.

Just like that, my stomach goes from happy butterflies to angry bees. No, maybe that’s too light of a term. More like fucking enraged yellow jackets that just had their nest swatted.

I swallow hard and text her back.

Me: Can’t wait. Love you.

She doesn’t bother to text back.

It’s not that my mom doesn’t love me. I’m sure she does. It’s ingrained in there like a primal instinct, right next to the one that tells people not to smother their young when they’re infants. She just has a different way of showing it. By berating my career choice, my clothing, my toothpaste. Yes, my toothpaste, because apparently, Crest isn’t up to snuff, according to her. My arm starts to itch, then my leg. And now my other arm… Shit, am I getting stress hives? I scratch my way to the bathroom and tear off my tank top and shorts. Not a mark on my body besides the ones from my itching.

Crap. Since I’d totally spaced about my parents coming, I didn’t bother putting in for that day off, and On Tap schedules our shifts a month in advance. No problem. Tomorrow, I’ll go in to work and see if someone can cover my shift that night. Until then, I will be panic cleaning. If I had any money to spare, I’d hire one of those maid services to dust my drapes and the air vents because I’m sure my mom will be going through the house with a white glove. I wish I was kidding.

After changing into sweats and a fresh tank, I slide into bed and try to put my parents’ impending visit aside. Because holy shit, there just might be bigger issues at hand. Or just a hand at hand. Dear Lord. Reid has turned me stupid.

As I drift to sleep, all I can think about is Reid’s fingers on me, inside me, making my body ache for him in a way I haven’t experienced before. Work is going to be very interesting tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning, I slip out of bed, shower, and mainline my coffee until I’m halfway coherent.

Brittany stands at the bar polishing glasses when I stroll into work. The brewery smells of a mixture of cleaning products and hops. Once we open, the bleach smell will dissipate and the aroma of fried food and baked bread from the local bakery that ships to us on Sundays will replace it.

“How are you doing today, darling?” she asks, the bangs of her red hair falling over her eyes. She shakes them out of her face and moves to polish another glass.

“Good.” More than good. I haven’t felt this light in…months, which is disturbing. Reid is normally the bane of my existence, and now he’s the reason I’m smiling.      

“You look like you’re glowing today. Did you do something extra naughty last night?”

I wink at her. “A lady never kisses and tells.” I like Brittany. She’s down to earth and has her shit together in a way I’ve never been able to. It must be mom voodoo because she seems to know whenever a customer needs something.

“Oh, come on. That’s just so unfair. I need to live vicariously through you,” she says.

From what I’ve come to learn about Brittany, she’s one of those freakishly happy married people. Brent, her husband, comes into On Tap whenever she’s on shift and brings her lunch. He even leaves her notes about how much he loves her. They’re high school sweethearts and have two kids, with another on the way. Basically, they’re living the dream.

I think the male gene pool has somehow become defective since Brent, though, because I can’t even get a guy to call after a date, let alone cut the crusts off my sandwiches.

“It’s nothing.” I shrug dismissively. Of course, I know it’s not this, but somehow, sharing with her that I got finger banged by On Tap’s beloved bartender doesn’t exactly scream appropriate work conversation.

“Nothing, eh?” Reid walks up behind me. He brushes my arm as he passes to go behind the bar, and every inch of my skin tingles. I catch his gaze, and he gives me a slight raise of his eyebrow.

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to hear that.

My mind goes blank. What does he think about me minimizing what we did? Or maybe I am just blowing this way out of proportion. “Er. Not nothing. Just nothing I care to share with anyone.” I shoot him a pointed look while Brittany moves to the other end of the bar.

Her brows pinch together. “Oh, Callie, you’re not messing around with one of those fuck boys, are you?” she says.

Reid stiffens. I don’t know yet what game we’re playing, but one thing I do know is I can’t control myself around him, and neither can he, apparently. But we’re both smart enough to realize we can’t talk about this to anyone at work—not if we want to keep our jobs.

I shake my head and focus back on Brittany. “I don’t know. It’s yet to be determined if he is true fuck boy material. He does exhibit some tendencies.”

I can’t help it. There’s just something about Reid that makes me want to get the last word in and give him a hard time. He’s like a big red do not push button. And now all I want to do is press the damn button.

Brittany clucks her tongue, clearly not happy with my answer. “You need to get out of that ASAP then. No use wasting time on that.”

“You’re so wise, Brittany.”

“Hey, maybe give the guy a break. He could have a lot going on in his life,” Reid pipes in. His fingers strain as they grip the bar towel in his hands.

“Like what type of hair gel holds his faux hawk in place? Give me a break, Reid. Men need to be more like you.” Brittany pats him protectively on the shoulder.

He smirks when he turns to me.

Brittany disappears into the back to grab some more bar towels, and I lean my elbows on the polished wood. “Can I ask you a favor?”

He raises a brow. “I don’t do those types of favors at work.”

I swat at him. “Not that type, you idiot.”

“I don’t know if idiot is an upgrade from fuck boy or not. And also, not a great way to ask for a favor.”

I busy myself with inspecting the mottled wood, running my fingernail over the grooves. “It’s an improvement. And you know you like it.”

He moves his head from side to side, pretending to debate this. “What do you need?”

“Can you take my shift on Thursday, the 28th?”

His lips press into a hard line, and he shakes his head. “No can do.”

“Why not?”

“Have plans.” He grabs a knife by the sink and starts chopping limes on a clean cutting board.

I wait for him to elaborate. To say something like, oh, I have a doctor’s appointment, or, I’ll be giving someone part of my kidney that day. But all he does is continue to slice the limes into wedges.

“On a Thursday,” I repeat, dumbly.

“Yep. Every Thursday.” He glances up from the row of lime slices and shoots me a look that says, Duh. Everyone knows this.

“How do you manage to get every Thursday off?” Tom doesn’t give preference to anyone. We all end up working weekend shifts at some point and some of the crappier shifts. I like that about On Tap. It seems fair.

“Because Tom loves me more.” He ruffles my hair and slides past me to the restaurant area.

Every Thursday? No way. Our schedules are somewhat chaotic, shifts changing every few weeks, so there’s no way that’s possible. I go to the back where our shift calendar hangs in the hallway in front of the break room. I scan and find that Reid is not on shift for any Thursday.

What does he do on those days? I stare at the piece of paper, trying to imagine what he does. Bank robbery? Clown school?

The latter would at least explain how he’s so good at making those damn balloon animals.

Brittany heads around the corner to the break room when I grab her arm.

“Brittany? What does Reid do every Thursday?”

She shrugs. “No clue. Just know that he always has that day off and doesn’t really talk about it.” She turns and scrunches her brows. “Which is very un-Reid like.”

Huh. Yeah, I’ve noticed.

I’ve noticed a lot of things, actually. Like the way his lips tip up in the corner when he says something that amuses himself. Or the fact his wardrobe is predominantly blue. Reid speaks his mind, for better or for worse. So for him to keep a secret about something…this has my Nancy Drew sleuth senses tingling. And I’m going to find out.