Page 64 of Sizzle
I inhale, measuring the beats as I hold my breath and exhale slowly, focusing on keeping my mind from hitting replay for the four hundredth time in the last twelve hours.
Joelle is late. As distractions go, it’s a motherfucker. I called her three times, but she hasn’t answered. I know it’s probably something mundane, but I can’t help but suspect her absence has something to do with last night.
Last night…
Don’t go there, jackass. You already almost lost a finger today by not paying attention.
The noisy kitchen is usually a comfort to me. I love the camaraderie, the heat, the bustle of it. It’s mine, all of it. I built it. Yet today all I want is to lock myself away somewhere and relive every second of last night.
Okay, maybe that’s not all I want. Round two would be nice. And three. And four.
My dick stirs and I shift over to the sink, turning the cold water on full blast to rinse my hands off. It’s cool enough to make me pay attention and I tell myself it helps.
Fact is, there will be no round two, not after the way I fucked things up last night. Fucking Alex and his fucking ex. When the hell did he start talking to Diana again anyway?
And why the bleeding fuck does it bother me so damn much?
Because I know—I know—he hasn’t really been talking to her. For one thing, I saw that text. It was the only message in the thread, so I know he hadn’t responded. That means the problem is the possibility that he might want to talk to her again.
If Alex wants to start things back up with that… woman, why should I care?
Whatever the reason, it had hit a big red button in me and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. At least Joelle left, too. I’m not proud of watching her climb into the Uber from the window, but if she’d stayed…
If she’d stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to keep myself from going back downstairs and joining them. And then I would have had to explain why I left, but how the hell am I supposed to tell them why when I don’t even understand it myself?
It was one text message.
I’m still stewing over that damned text when Anna stops by to pass on a message from Joelle, saying she overslept and will be here soon.
Thank God. Something innocuous. I certainly can’t blame her for oversleeping; I was exhausted this morning, too. Though I doubt she was up tossing and turning like I was.
Or maybe she was.
Shit.
An hour later, I’m elbow deep in a slower-than-usual lunch rush, doing my best not to stare at Joelle every time I walk by her station in the kitchen. She came in, apologized to me and Anna for being late, then dove straight into work, all without making eye contact with me once.
I swear I keep hearing the faintest sniffle coming from her direction, and it’s all I can do not to order her into my office to tell me what the hell is wrong. Only I can’t do that because the instant I get her alone, those pants are coming off.
If she’ll let me. There’s a chance she might not be thrilled with me flaking out last night.
Seriously, Elliot, what the hell were you thinking?
“Hey, boss,” Jimmy calls out the next time I pass through the kitchen. “Any way you can grab an extra set of sheet pans on your way back up here?”
I give him a thumbs up and head to the storeroom. It’s little more than an open closet, but it’s a lot quieter back here, which is the only reason I hear it.
Crying.
I peer around the corner. Joelle is sitting on an overturned plastic crate, surrounded by cans of tomato sauce and piles of plastic storage bins, hands covering her gorgeous face.
“Oh, sunshine,” I say. My voice cracks, and before I can even clear my throat, Joelle’s wiping her eyes and standing up. “What’s wrong? Please, please tell me… please tell me this isn’t about last night. Whatever it is, I’ll make it right. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”
Joelle sniffs, wiping her nose delicately with a tissue that comes from nowhere.
“I’m sorry, Elliot,” she says, her voice rough from her crying. It guts me to hear it. Joelle should never sound like that. “Let me go wash my hands and I’ll get back to work.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”