See, the fun part of all of this is, when I finally manage to leave tonight, after my fourth double shift in a blazing hot cinnamon bun stand with no AC, the nightmare doesn’t end. After graduation last spring, my parents sold our house and moved up to Vancouver for my dad’s new job. I stayed the summer since I’m going to be going to UCSD in the fall, and of course, I found myself working at Uncle Matt’s shop. But what’s even worse? When I go home tonight, it’s to Matt’s house. I go from working at creepy, lecherous Uncle Matt’s gross cinnamon bun stand, to sleeping in creepy, lecherous Uncle Matt’s house, where I lock the bedroom door and push a dresser in front of it every night.
Like I said, I kind of hate my life right now.
I’m about to move on to the next scowling looking customer, when suddenly, my roaming eyes freeze.
Holy shit.
The guy is, to put it mildly, gorgeous. Tall, tan, and built with a white t-shirt sticking to his powerful looking chest and shoulders like a second skin in the heat. He’s in surf shorts, too, and his slightly shaggy dark hair is pushed back from his absolutely beautiful face. His chiseled jaw has a swarth of scruff on it, which somehow makes him even better.
The guy is standing next to a parked pickup truck, and as I watch, he suddenly reaches down and peels his shirt right off. My breath catches, and I bite my lip as my cheeks flush. Holy sweet Jesus. His abs flex and ripple, and I can feel my pulse beating faster as he stretches and flexes his ripped, muscled frame. He reaches into his truck and pulls out a clean shirt, and I shamelessly watch as he tugs it back on.
“Miss! Are you fucking deaf!?”
I blink and startle, and my attention swivels to the voice screaming at me. I groan inside: it’s the same woman from a minute ago, with the extra extra glaze.
“Hi, can I help you?”
She sneers. “You can stop fucking ripping me off is what you can do to help! Extra! Do you fucking understand what that means?!”
“Ma’am, I’d be happy to fix your—”
“Refund! Now!”
I frown. Great, just what I need. Matt barely raises a finger to run this place. But for some reason, he’s got a sixth sense for sniffing out refunds. The woman shoves the box of buns my way, the lid half open. I open it the rest of the way and arch a brow: half of the dozen are gone.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I can’t refund them if you’ve eaten them.”
“What!!” She screeches. “Well I had enough to check more than one to know that you’d fucked the whole thing up, you stupid bitch!”
I bristle. “Ma’am—”
“Fuck this place!” she yells. “And fuck you!”
I gasp as she shoves the whole box at me and whirls. Half-melting cinnamon buns tumble against my face, my chest, my arms—all of me, covering me in gross, tacky, sticky sugar glaze. The woman storms off, and the people in line start to chuckle.
I fucking hate my life.
I look up, but when my eyes find the truck, my face falls. The truck is still there, but the hot guy is gone.
So much for my eye candy, I grumble.
I try and napkin off some of the stickiness, but I’m already right back into taking orders. Sweat and sugar melt over my skin, and the blistering heat makes me feel like I’m actually melting. Order after barked, rude order, it feels like the world is pushing me down into a puddle of sugar, with no end in sight. Mercifully, finally, it the rush simmers out, and there’s finally no one in line.
Right then, the buzzer for the service door at the back of the shack, through the kitchen, goes off. I groan, my heart sinking. Now what. I’m soaked in sweat and frosting, my hair is slicked down the sides of my face, my feet are killing me, and I’m sure my porny white tank top is glazed, sweaty, and translucent enough at this point to look like it actually is from a porn set.
I traipse back into the blazing hot kitchen and yank open the back door.
“Yeah, what—”
I gasp, and I stop short. My eyes go wide, and my mouth falls open as my pulse skips a beat. Because standing right in front of me, is him—mister sexy change-my-shirt-in-public from before. Only now, he’s right here, towering over me, looking even freaking hotter.
…And here I am, dressed like a porn star, covered literally heat-to-toe in sugar frosting.
“Um…” I swallow. “Hi?”
He grins—God, why is he so fucking smoldering hot when he smiles? And even though I thought I already was, I melt even more.
“Hey, I’m here to cool you off.”