Duh, dude. I did some major inner fist pumping at his compliment. I refrained from doing a victory dance in my seat.
After that whole debacle, we needed to get something straight. I shifted in my seat to stare him down. This guy was not going to treat me like dirt, and I was going to make that clear. “Let’s call it even. I helped you out, you don’t treat me like a douche.”
He flinched, the skin in the corner of his eyes crinkling. “I deserved that. Sorry that we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Do all new employees get the welcome wagon, or am I just special?” Total pet peeve that this guy misjudged me. Even if I did dye my hair and paint my nails, it didn’t mean I lacked brain cells.
He readjusted the hat on his head, running his tongue nervously over his lips. “Definitely only for girls named Jules.”
We pulled up to a stoplight and he shifted in his seat. He stuck out his hand. “Truce?”
I gave him a once-over. I’d like that. I’d like to get to know this guy who pushed my buttons. Even if he was infuriating, something about him pulled me in. Something that I should be ignoring because he’d been a total prick this past week. And yet here I was, putting my hand in his large, callused one. “Truce,” I said.
I lingered a moment longer than needed, enjoying the firm grip. The air between us shifted, and suddenly I became more aware of my breathing, the warmth of his hands, his pulse that ticked under the pad of my thumb.
“Jules?”
“Yes?” I said, being pulled out of the moment.
“I need to shift. Can I have my hand back?”
Son of a biscuit. The bumbly crap returned. And what was that? Did he just feel it, whatever it was? I pulled my hand away and folded my arms over my chest. Since when did I get weird around guys? Usually, reading guys came easy, and I tailored my actions according to their tastes. Something about Ryan sent visceral responses scrambling any transmitting brainwaves. Hello, fourteen-year-old awkward self. Please take your blue and gold braces and boom box and stay in the past where you belong.
Ryan let out a low chuckle and wrung his hands on the steering wheel.
“Something funny, DeShane?”
“Nope, not a thing.” A smug smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.
Arrogant jerk.
“Go ahead. Tell me what’s so amusing.” I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d knocked me off my A game.
“You’re just cute—er—I mean, funny.”
“Cute? Cute is a word you save for purses and old ladies wearing pearls. Not part of my vocabulary, DeShane.” I just saved him from needing a tow, and somehow that put me on the same spectrum as pigtails and bows.
“How about pain in the ass?”
I raised my brow, a feat I learned from Payton. “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’.”
“Can’t touch this.”
Maybe that throwback song station at Office Jax was getting to him too, if he was pulling out the MC Hammer lyrics.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep my hand in my pocket.”
“Did you just Alanis Morissette me?”
“So what if I did?”
We both looked at each other and busted out in laughter. “Please tell me you hate those songs as much as I do.”
“So much.”
He smiled—the first genuine smile I’d seen from him since we started working together. It suited him. Much better than the get-off-my-lawn persona. Maybe this summer wouldn’t be as bad as I’d originally thought.
Chapter Eight
Ryan
If I had to hear Aaron Carter one more time I was going to kick over the Post-it note display and make it rain yellow slips of paper. I’d much rather be out on the water or out hiking the Sierra Nevadas. They were beautiful this time of year, and the wildlife was out in full force.
I gritted my teeth and continued to change out price tags for this week’s sales. A price tag caught my eye. A pink pen labeled Squiggles for Her Sleek Gel Pen. A pen. Just for women. People really bought this shit? I must have been a real dick in my previous life if I was stuck here for two months.
As I stared at the display, Jules strode through the door, her hair flowing behind her like a golden cape. For a split second, Office Jax wasn’t the worst job I could have. Morgues were a step down. And there was always the DMV. Jules definitely made this situation more tolerable. A little more of making a connection and I’d be ready to take it to the next step, which I needed to check up on again. I’d forgotten it since the last time I read the magazine article. I wasn’t proud to admit it, but that stupid list of tips was working.
“Mornin’, DeShane.”
The way she pronounced my name, the S almost a whisper, like it was a dirty word, sent my internal temperature climbing. I liked the way her eyes playfully glinted as she said it. “Morning.”
Ever since the truck incident yesterday, we’d been on speaking terms. A big improvement since the first time we met.
She leaned against the cardboard Post-it display and fanned her thumb across a pack of sticky notes. “It’s Thursday.”