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Eager to please, Grav did the same, twisting her nose and saying “yucky” every time she tossed a pineapple.
“Hey, children,” I chided. “Don’t yuck someone else’s yum.”
“That someone else needs to you-know-what, you-know-where.” He eyed me meaningfully. “I’d say all the words, but the potty-word police are nearby.” He jerked his head toward Gravity.
After they were done clearing all the pineapple from the pizza, Rhyland slid two huge slices onto plates and poured himself a cup of “grown-up juice” (read: beer) and apple juice for Grav.
“What does grown-up juice taste like?” Gravity piped up.
“Emotional numbness.”
“Will I like the taste of emonamiss?” she squeaked.
“We all do, honey.” He chewed thoughtfully. “When you’re around seventeen, ask Uncle Rhyland, and I’ll let you have a taste of your own beer.”
I watched, transfixed, as they both ignored me for ten minutes straight, making conversation and eating their pizza without offering me any. It was clear the man was making no effort to change himself or talk toddler language for my daughter. It was also clear she was head over heels smitten with him. Fuck. This was really bad.
Finally, Rhyland swung his gaze to me. “Any reason why you’re still here?”
Shit. I had a shift to go to, didn’t I? I’d gotten lost in watching a man being adorable with my kid. It was more arousing than a Magic Mike show.
“Uh, her bedtime is—”
“Seven forty-five p.m., I know.” He plucked a black olive from his pizza, tossing it into his mouth and chewing. “I read the manual. I know it better than the pope knows the Bible.”
Gravity tried to pull off the same olive-to-mouth toss, but it hit her eye, and she squawked.
“What’s with the attitude?” I tapered my eyes.
“Dunno. What’s with the outfit?” The heat oozing through his light, playful eyes threatened to burn down the entire building.
My gaze slid down in confusion. I was wearing a black leather skirt and boots, along with a floral top. “I’m fishing for tips.” I jutted a hip out, tossing my hair back defiantly.
“The NYPD might be fishing for bodies in the Hudson if the patrons don’t watch themselves tonight,” he murmured under his breath, ripping his eyes from me.
“That sounds possessive.” I arched an eyebrow.
“Not possessive—protective,” he corrected, standing up and sauntering over to me. He stopped when we were a breath away from each other, leaning down to whisper into my ear so only I could hear. “Trust me, Cosmos, if I wanted anything else, I’d be christening my best friend’s bed by nailing you into it. You’ve given me every inclination you’d be game, the willing victim that you are.”
Anger and shame flooded me. I sidestepped him, but not before stomping on his foot. “Try not to ruin her,” I said, my voice steely.
To his credit, he didn’t even flinch at my stomp.
“You tend to do that with everything you touch.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t touch little girls.” He winked me. “That’s why I spared you.”
God, he was infuriating. I wished I didn’t need him quite so much.
For babysitting.
I tried to shake off the weird reverie I found myself in on my way to the Alchemist. Did I really put together an outfit for tips, or was it for Rhy? Maybe a little bit of both. Watching Rhyland’s face as he took me in nearly undid me. It reminded me I was a woman—a conventionally pretty one—and that, in itself, brightened my mood.
I arrived five minutes before my shift was scheduled to start and was greeted by Max, who showed me the back end of the bar. The office was adjacent to the kitchen, home to a row of lockers, a desk with a computer on it, and a sole metal cabinet. The schedule for the week hung on a wall. I checked the timetable on a pinboard, relieved I didn’t have to work with Tucker today. He was just finishing a shift. Maybe I could avoid him altogeth—
“Oh, great.” His familiar voice slithered down my back like a cold, wet towel. “It’s you.”
Or maybe not.