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Interesting.

I walk to the window and wait patiently. There’s a sign that tells patrons to knock hard on the side of the truck for service, but the last thing I am today is in any kind of hurry. And I have a great view of him at the fryer, shaking his round, thick ass, which is not the worst view of the day.

That lasts about a minute and a half before he turns, then jumps half a foot before his face falls into a scowl. He rips the headphones off and leans out the window. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I didn’t want to interrupt.’

He makes a loud scoffing sound. ‘I’m not serving you today.’

‘It’s not for me. It’s for?—’

He uses Robbie’s hilarious sign name again, but this time, I’m not laughing. ‘Robbie can come down here himself. You’re banned.’

All for making a small mistake? Why does he hate me so much? Why is the universe so up my fucking ass this week? To my horror, my throat goes a little tight, and I feel the crushing weight of this adding to everything else fall into my expression.

Mellie’s eyes widen, and he takes half a step away from the window before leaning out again and waving at me to get my attention. ‘What do you want?’

I quickly shake my head. ‘Nothing. I’m okay.’

He lifts his hands to argue when suddenly he cries out, and it takes me a second to see something flying at him. A bee.

No.

A wasp.

He cries out again and begins slapping the side of his neck. I can tell he’s been stung and probably more than once. I don’t really think as I dart to the side of the food truck where the door’s hanging halfway open, and I hurry inside. The wasp is flying now, and Mellie’s pressed against the wall with his hand holding the spot on his neck the wasp must have gotten him.

The ugly, creepy little dickhead has landed on the counter, and I act. With the palm of my hand, I smash down and feel a sickening crunch. The only good news is that it’s definitely dead. The bad news is that I have wasp guts stuck to my palm, and I’m pretty sure the stinger is still intact.

Mellie’s staring at me with wide eyes, and I can’t tell if he’s afraid of me or impressed. Or maybe disgusted. I want to tell him I’ve never squashed a wasp with my bare hands before, but I can’t bring myself to move because yeah. Bug guts. I can feel them drying against my palm. This is not my finest moment.

His hand drops, and I see two small welts on his skin.

My left hand raises, and I sign, ‘Allergic?’

He frowns, and then his brows lift in understanding. ‘No. Hurts.’

I nod, then carefully lift my right hand. I have a moment of fear, like pages fromThe Shiningare about to come to life and Stephen King’s terrifying ghost wasps are going to resurrect and multiply, killing us both. But all I see is squashed insect.

Mellie lets out a high, tight laugh before grabbing a napkin, sweeping the mess into a ball, then tossing it into the trash. He makes a noise in the back of his throat and beckons me forward toward his sink.

I’m still shaking and a little confused. There’s an overdose of adrenaline leaving my system, so there’s no fight in me when he takes both my hands and begins to wash them. It’s strangely intimate, and despite my nervous condition, my dick reacts.

Luckily, I’m in my black work trousers, so he won’t notice. Not until I get really hard.

Christ, I can’t stop staring at him. Up close, he’s even more beautiful. He has so many freckles, and his hair is curlier than I thought it was. He’s got a scar under his left eye, and his eye teeth are more crooked than I first noticed, which I love. It gives him that non-plastic personality I’ve always found attractive in men.

He licks his lips, meeting my gaze for way too long. His fingers are moving over my palm—stroking up and down, up and down. My dick gets harder, and I swallow heavily. If he doesn’t stop soon, we’re going to have a serious problem.

He clears his throat and looks away, and the moment shatters.

My breath leaves my chest in a trembling almost-whine, and while I never think this,ever, in that moment, I’m glad he can’t hear it because the sound is frankly embarrassing. He can probably see it on my face, though, from the way his lips are fighting a smile.

‘Sorry,’ I start, but his hands are up before I can finish my apology.

‘My hero.’ Then he presses his hand to his chest and flutters his lashes. It’s entirely un-fucking-necessary, but it only serves to make my wanting worse. Before I can reply with something smart-ass, he winces and touches his stings with two fingers. They’re pretty swollen now, and while he’s definitely not allergic, I know they can’t feel good.

‘First aid kit?’