evilbutter
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“I got an email from Shapiro.” he says wetly. “Sydney, God. Please look at me.”
And then he falls to his knees, right there in the middle of the street like some fucking maniac and it’s so raw and ugly and she thinks to herself—who the fuck is this man? What the fuck is her life? She had a few shots earlier but the past few minutes have sobered her so much that she knows this is real and she’s not tripping the fuck out.
Carmy grips onto the fabric of her shorts, twisting and pulling, and now they’re both crying snot-nosed and red-eyed in fucking public.
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Sydney closes her eyes, chewing, contemplating, and a little hmm escapes from her lips before she swallows. “Okay. Jesus. That’s good. Like really good.”
“Yeah? You think?”
“Oh, yeah. I like how light the broth is. I also—I really like the color scheme you’ve got going on here. Reminds me of one of my bandanas. It’s all yellow and green.”
His throat clamps up. “Oh?”
“You’ve probably seen it. I wear it a lot.”
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She noticed it for the first time a few weeks ago while they were working through the new lunch menu together in her kitchen.
He’d leaned over and nudged into her space to taste the sauce on the stove, his hairy forearm brushing hers. For a second, she froze. Carmy stood there, too close but not in an unpleasant way, his breath on her shoulder, skin radiating a furnace-like heat. When he stepped back, she felt impossibly dizzy.
“Yo,” she called out, throwing a dirty dish towel at his head. “Back up. You’re all up in my zone.”
Biting back a grin, he muttered, “Sorry, chef,” and she noticed the way the tips of his ears burned red.