Page 9 of A One Woman Job
My mouth is only salivating because I’m hungry.
Right. Hungry.
There’s a staff lounge at my cleaning job and I usually steal a granola bar for my dinner. Hopefully it’s not just a bunch of oatmeal raisin—
My thoughts descend into static when I enter the gigantic, high-ceilinged living room and see Koen standing in front of the picture window overlooking the ocean, a violin perched on his bare shoulder. He’s shirtless. Barefoot. In a pair of low-hanging slacks. Just like the rest of him, his back is a haven for ink, but…
Are those bullet holes, too?
Before I can squint and confirm my suspicion, Koen stops playing.
Lowers the violin slowly.
Turns.
The intense way he zeroes in on me nearly melts me into the floor.
That broad chest rises and falls. “Did you sleep well, Meg?”
Is it possible for thighs to blush? Mine turn molten at the deep pitch of his voice, telling me yes, it’s possible. When this man talks and gives me his undivided attention, thighs can blush. “I think that’s the best I’ve ever slept in my life, actually.”
I’m definitely imagining the deep satisfaction that crosses his features. This man is the meanest dude I’ve ever met. He can’t possibly be gratified by my superior nap. “What part of it did you like?” he asks, walking slowly in my direction, gaze intent on my face. “The sheets? The pillows? The temperature of the room?”
“All of it.”
“Nothing you’d like to change for tonight?”
I’m beset with confusion. “What do you mean?” It’s hard enough to trust my father to maintain the kids’ schedules during the days while I’m doing Etta’s dirty work. But missing their nighttime routineandmy shift at my second job? That would be asking too much from the universe. “I’m not sleeping here tonight. Could we, like, do lunch tomorrow, or something?”
“Lunch?” A muscle snaps in his jaw. “Why can’t you stay the night?”
“I have a job.” Why do I tremble more and more the closer he gets? I’m not scared, per se. I’m more…giddy? Breathless? What is wrong with me? “I have two jobs, actually, and a side hustle.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Live with the disappointment, I guess.”
“God, you’re a smartass.” His fingers flex around the violin bow in his hand. “What is your second job? Besides the Uber.”
“I would rather not say. But you can ask me about my side hustle.”
I wait.
His right eye begins ticking. “Well?”
“I make paper planes.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how juvenile they sound, but I don’t let the sudden insecurity show. “I’m something of an expert, thanks to making a million of them for my brothers. There are rich kids in town willing to pay me five dollars per plane.Five dollars. For some folded up paper. Crazy.” I shake my head, warming to the story now, despite his silence. “I stumbled into the paper airplane biz by mistake, you know. I took my brothers to the park one day and everyone had kites. Everyone but us. So I sat on the bench and made a paper airplane so we could play catch with it. Suddenly, every kid in a ten-block radius wants one. But I’m not a charity—my time is valuable, bro. I started charging.”
“I don’t understand this,” Koen says, after a prolonged pause. “Most of the time, when people talk I want them to shut the fuck up. But every time you talk, I only discover more questions I want to ask.”
“Go ahead.” I flip my hair. “I know you want to ask me to make you a paper airplane.”
“I…” He trails off, growing visibly bewildered. “I do, actually.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Got any paper?”
“This is the most ridiculous day of my life.”
“Thank you.”