Page 26 of Baby, It’s You (Clairesville #1)

Olive

Monday

I look in the bathroom mirror of the women’s restroom one last time before I need to go greet Hunter.

He just texted me that he’s outside and I made sure to get here a little early to prep the bar in advance so I can have more time to film before we open for the day. I don’t want to feel rushed this time.

I give myself a final pep talk. “Listen up, you beautiful, stubborn, funny, hot, cool bitch.” I point at myself in the mirror.

“No matter how cute his hair is today, no matter how many times he laughs at your jokes, no matter how much you want to lick his abs. You are not allowed to like Hunter! We have a mission to save the bar and you’re not going to get distracted by a stunning specimen of a man who may or may not give you fanny flutters. ”

With that, I straighten my ugly work bow tie and walk out of the bathroom. I had a mini panic attack about what I should wear today and in the middle of my mental breakdown, I threw on my uniform. It’s a walking chastity belt, which is what I need right now.

I hear three knocks on the main door and quickly walk forward to open it. Hunter’s beautiful self is in the doorway, and he’s staring at me with intensity.

“Old Fart,” he says in a low, deep voice.

“Um, what?” I ask.

“That's the name of my truck,” he says matter-of-factly, and points back towards it.

“ That’s the name you spent days working on?” I ask him, brows raised.

He holds up both hands, showing mock offense. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. This is my relationship with my car, remember. Only I know what name is worthy of it, and I choose Old Fart.”

“Okay, if you say so. Old Fart it is.” I smirk and surrender. “Come on in.”

I scoot out of the way so he can enter, secretly checking him out from behind. Today he has on a short-sleeved blue henley with the top two buttons open, a black beanie, and tan pants. His curls pop out the bottom of his beanie and I have the urge to rip it off and tousle my hand through his hair.

I realize he has something behind his back when he quickly moves so I can't see it and then turns towards me.

“I have something for you.” Hunter’s eyes light up with mischief.

“You do?” I say with a hint of fear in my voice.

I don’t do well with presents or surprises; I just hate being put on the spot in general.

That probably stems from my childhood, with my mom popping up with a new boyfriend every other week.

That random guy would then toss a Barbie or a crappy candy bar in my direction to try and impress me so they could get in good with her.

“Close your eyes,” Hunter says, stepping closer.

I reluctantly comply and I can feel his warmth as he stands right in front of me now.

“Put out your hands,” he whispers, his voice rough and breath minty. I can feel goose bumps forming up my arms and I hope he doesn’t notice.

I lay my hands out and feel something long and metal in them. It feels kind of like a knife. I open my eyes. What the …it is a knife.

“You got me a knife?” I ask.

His face is full of excitement. “Yeah! A butter knife!” he exclaims.

I awkwardly smile and laugh a little bit, unsure how to accept the gift. Then I see his face start to fall.

“I am just now realizing how creepy it is to give a woman a knife as a present. I literally just stood outside the bar, in the early morning, with a knife hidden behind my back to surprise you. My bad.” He looks like a sad puppy trying to explain the gift to me.

“I was at the thrift store yesterday and I saw this knife and it made me think of you because you love butter. When I saw it had flowers all down the sides and you have a flower tattoo, I knew I needed to get it for you.” He runs his hand across his brow, obviously stressing now.

I feel my face warm at the mention of my tattoo.

I look down at the silver knife and notice that it is beautifully etched with flowers.

He noticed such a small detail about me after only being around me a handful of times.

It’s incredibly flattering, but I also don't want to give him the wrong impression.

The gift shows he has been thinking about me and though I might like it, it's not something I should accept.

Seeing him recoil with embarrassment snaps me out of my thoughts, though.

“This is so cool. I can’t wait to enjoy a bucket of butter with this bad boy,” I say, shaking the knife. “You’re so thoughtful. I’m glad we are becoming friends. Thank you.” I smile at him, trying to convince myself that it didn’t feel like poison sliding off my tongue when I called him a friend .

He seems unsure by what I said, but plays it off quickly and gives me a small smirk in response. “Well, glad to know that gift made the chopping block. ” Hunter raises his eyebrows and wiggles them at me as I groan at the awful dad joke.

“I think you should be called Old Fart, not the car, because that joke was horrible. What are you? Geriatric?”

“Getting up there. I turn thirty in a few months.”

“Interesting.” I look him up and down playfully. “I did see a few grey hairs last time you took your hat off.”

His eyes twinkle as he laughs. “Well that’s good, because I want to be a silver fox one day.”

“Oh god. That’s what Rick calls himself when he wears the fox mask at the bar.”

“Sweet grandpa-vibes Rick?”

“Yeah, he was a real stud back in the day apparently. He wore bell-bottoms every day and was in a band back in the ’60s.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. Ask him for photos next time you see him, he will love you forever.” I laugh.

His gaze lingers on my mouth, and I feel exposed, vulnerable under his glance. It seems like he notices me in a deeper way than just my appearance.

Turning away, I go and set the butter knife on the counter. “Alright, so you ready to get started?”

Hunter clears his throat. “You bet. Show me our next story.”

“Follow me to the men’s restroom,” I tell him and lead the way.

He chuckles from behind me. “Oh. This should be good.”

I walk into the men’s bathroom to the wall by the sink and point to the scribbled writing in blue marker next to the soap dispenser.

Last time I was at this bar, I got arrested. - Ted

Hunter reads where I am pointing and then looks up at me. “Sounds like an interesting one.”

“I know. When I saw it the other day, I was so curious. Now I need to know what happened.”

“You don’t know the story?” he asks me.

“Nope! I never come into the men’s bathroom other than to pop my head in at the end of a shift and make sure there aren't any drunk stragglers. Rob usually always stocks and cleans it; it’s been that way ever since Seymour passed.

He didn’t want Jane to have to deal with the nasty men’s room and it’s just always stayed the same routine,” I tell him, thankful.

“ But Tripp yelled at me, saying the bathroom needed toilet paper and more soap the other day before Rob was here so I went in and voila…I saw it.” I make a chef’s kiss motion with my hand. “Our next story for the series.”

“Do you happen to know what Ted’s last name could be? I feel like there are at least a hundred Teds in Clairesville.”

“I don’t, but don't you worry because I did talk with Johnny about it, and he does know the right Ted.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time.

“Apparently, they are old friends, so he made a call for us. Ted is expecting us at his home in the next thirty minutes, so we better get going.”

I smile at Hunter and hand him the address that Johnny scribbled down on a piece of paper for me.

“Look at you, quite the little journalist,” he teases me in response.

“That’s me!” I hold my phone under my chin as a pretend microphone, and joke, “If I lose my job at the bar, at least I will have a backup career.”

He looks at me with a serious expression. “You won’t lose the bar.”

“Okay, okay.” I nod and lead the way to walk out of the bathroom.

I rush to pick up my keys and Hunter grabs his equipment as I flick off the lights.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yup!”

As he opens the bar door, I shout, “To the Old Fart!” and walk past him. Then I turn back to look at him and say, with an eyebrow raised, “You’re right, it is a good name.”