I say yes with my eyes, because I’m scared to even nod. “Why are you letting me try it on?”
She shrugs. “Maybe ’cause you don’t always have to win a pageant to wear a crown.”
I will not kiss Bo Larson. I will not think about Bo Larson.
Marcus called in sick, like he could somehow smell how awkward tonight was guaranteed to be.
The shine of the crown has worn off, and we are slammed. Bo ends up having to come out of his kitchen cave to help me on register. From what I can tell, the only phrases in his vocabulary are: “Dine in or take out?” and “That’ll be (insert total).”
Every now and again, our hands brush or we bump into each other. And every touch sends electricity through my every vein. But when he gets into an argument with a customer over pickles, Ron tells him to go back to the kitchen.
At the end of the night, Ron sends us all home early and promises to come in tomorrow morning do the closing checklist. I would protest because my mother always taught me that a southern lady always puts up a fight when anyone else volunteers to do the cleaning, but I’m all too ready to be home.
I try to be quick and beat Bo out the door, but with every step I take, he’s on my heels.
I have got to find a new job.
My hand is on the door handle of my car and I’m nearly home free.
“Willowdean.”
I turn.
He moves toward me so quickly that I feel like I’m moving, too.
Our noses brush and his lips stop short of mine. My mind’s eye has yet to catch up and process that he is here, in my bubble, redefining everything I thought I knew of myself. My discretion. My pride. They’re both gone and it’s like I’ve got horse blinders on.
I am kissing Bo Larson. I am thinking of Bo Larson.
For the first time in my life, I feel tiny. I feel small. And not in the shrinking flower kind of way. This feeling: it empowers me.
“I want to kiss you,” he says and with each word, his lips brush against mine.
I lose all words and, instead, lace my fingers through his hair and pull his lips to meet mine.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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TWO MONTHS LATER
TWELVE
Standing on my tiptoes to reach the top shelf, I feel my apron fall loose, the tie at my waist coming undone. I glance behind me to my right and then to my left to see Bo grinning.
He winks.
Bo has become the best and worst part of my day.
The watch on my wrist tells me it’s 6:02 p.m. Time for my break. I shove the last bag of buns onto the shelf, carelessly crushing them no doubt, and turn to follow him. My feet carry me without my mind having any say. Behind me noise fades and all I hear are the echoes of Harpy’s. Orders shouted out. Customers complaining. Marcus whistling. Meat sizzling. It all fades to zero.
Until earlier this summer I’d never known anything like this. It’s the moment right before I grab the bag of trash piled on top of the crates in the back and kick the already ajar back door open.
It’s the second before I drop the leaking plastic bag next to the Dumpster as Bo Larson crushes me up against the metal door and nothing but his lips touch me. It’s that millisecond of no hands. Just lips.
Then, like a dam releasing water, his hands roam and the moment is gone. And I remember how uncomfortable his touch on my soft body makes me feel.