Page 63 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Three

Rhett

I ’m pretty sure Robbie’s about to either kill me or fire me, but I can’t stop pacing. It was a shitty morning, and it’s an even shittier afternoon. A freshman’s mother found out about his two Deaf teachers—and that the classes are being taught in ASL with an interpreter—and she’s filed a complaint.

It’s not going to go anywhere, of course. Firstly, the parents have virtually no say in anything now that their kids are adults, and secondly, the college has been dealing with these obnoxious helicopter parents who haven’t learned to cut the cord on their adult children since the program started, and we’ve had every complaint dismissed so far. The teachers here are secure in their jobs, and so is the interpreter department.

But I can’t help the low-level thrum of anxiety I feel every time our positions are even slightly threatened. If Robbie loses his job, I lose mine, and I cannot go back to what I was doing. I will not survive it. I worked my ass off for the position I have now, and I don’t want to have to start all over again somewhere else.

As much as I complain, and as much as I feel lost sometimes, the truth remains that I’m where I need to be.

‘Relax,’ Robbie signs lazily from behind his computer.

I give him a look, and he rolls his eyes, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. I hover-sit for a moment, then shoot right back up. It’s no use. We’re going to be called into a meeting later this afternoon with the dean, and while I’m about ninety-eight percent certain they’re going to tell us to ignore this woman who’s been sending harassing emails for forty-eight hours, there’s that two percent that’s afraid they’re going to get tired of dealing with us and shut it down.

‘Why aren’t you more worried about this?’ I ask.

He sighs and leans his elbows on his desk. It makes his signs a little sloppy, but he’s always been easy to read, which comes with having ASL as his birth language. ‘Because what’s the point? They’re not going to shut us down because one weirdo mother with an ableist stick up her ass and an Oedipal relationship with her son has a complaint about how his education is delivered to him. And if they do decide to shut us down, then it’s not her. That means they were waiting for a reason, and it’s going to happen whether we like it or not.’

I hate when he’s reasonable. ‘If that happens, I’m quitting for good. I’m going to buy a cabin in the woods and grow my own food and…I don’t know, learn to hunt.’

He snorts loudly. ‘Maybe you can turn it into a reality show.’

Yeah, I hate him.

He sees the stress on my face is very real, and his demeanor shifts into his dad mode, which he doesn’t use on me often. ‘Do me a favor.’

‘Anything.’ And I mean that. Anything to distract me.

‘Go get us some lunch from the food truck.’

Okay, anything but that. The ridiculously hot Deaf Chef is more likely to spit in my food than make it with any kind of love. But hell, I don’t have to eat it. And if I tell him it’s for Robbie, he might leave it alone.

Besides, getting yelled at and berated by him sounds a hell of a lot better than dealing with this little problem. ‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t care,’ he signs, and his gaze turns back to his computer. I know he can still see my signs in his periphery, but I can tell I’ve been dismissed. He’s not hungry either. He just wants me out of his face, and that’s fair enough.

I want myself out of my face as well.

I take my time as I exit his office, and I hit the stairs instead of taking the elevator. It’s a slow descent, and I linger in the entryway, watching the line of students who are still trying to convince admissions to change their schedules without taking an Incomplete in spite of the fact that it’s past midterms. It’s one of my favorite ways to people-watch. But today, I don’t have the head or the heart for it.

I make my way outside toward the little roundabout where I can see the Deaf Chef truck parked. It smells just as good as it did the other day, and in spite of the fact that it feels like I swallowed a boulder, my stomach rumbles.

Today, there’s no line, but it’s also well past lunch. I can see the guy in there—Mellie—puttering around through the back window, and I watch him for a beat. He’s as attractive as he was the other day. Maybe even more. He’s got sunglasses pushing his ginger waves back from his forehead, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that’s working hard, straining over his meaty biceps.

I can also see he’s wearing those massive, expensive headphones over his ears and bobbing along to a beat I’m pretty sure he can’t hear, can only feel. I can see it in the rhythm of his dancing. It’s something I observed after going to Deaf raves. Hearing people move to a melody. Deaf people dance to a beat.

I will die on the hill that they make better dancers, and I’m just waiting on the world to give that community the chance they deserve in places like TV shows and Broadway.

But that’s neither here nor there. I’m pretty sure Mellie’s not interested in becoming famous. He seems fairly content with his food truck and his life here in town. I don’t blame him. I used to travel for work before I got this job, and nowhere felt more like home than when I finally planted seeds so roots could grow.

I can only hope now that they’re allowed to flourish.

Squaring my shoulders, I walk around to the front of the truck and stop when I see a small table on the side with a hand-drawn sign and a small stack of plastic boxes with clear lids. The sign reads: Fresh Honeycomb. Local .

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 from The Shining are 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?’

He jerks his head to a cabinet above what looks like a cutting board table, and I open it to find a rusted-looking white box that looks like it was pulled right out of my early nineties childhood. The stuff inside looks pretty decent though, and there are a couple of burn packets with lidocaine marked in the small print.

‘Sit,’ I order.

He gives me his bitch-face—and God, that should not be sexy either, but it is—and he obeys. There’s a rickety metal chair and a two-step stool side by side. He takes the chair, which is probably for the best because his gorgeously lush ass wouldn’t fit between the rails of the stool.

I can barely squeeze onto it, but I make it work, then take his chin gently and turn his head to the side. His breath is short and shallow—panic, probably. Before I can stop myself, I stroke a gentle touch over his jaw, and his entire shoulders just…relax.

Like I hit a button on him and his anxiety powered down.

His head’s turned so far that I know he won’t be able to read my signs, so instead of trying to talk to him, I get busy with treating the stings. There are only two, and they’re very red and swollen, but nothing he needs a hospital for.

I swipe them clean with the antiseptic wipe, which makes him suck in a sharp breath, and then I smooth a layer of the lidocaine cream over the top. It won’t do much, but it should help a little. Balling up the wrapper, I make the toss into the trash can in one shot and internally cheer.

Mellie’s head turns toward me just as I hear a sharp knock on the side of the truck. We’re obviously too far for him to feel it.

‘Customers,’ I tell him.

He licks his lips, looking almost confused, and then he rolls his eyes. ‘Tell them I’m closed.’

‘Voice?’ I ask. I’m not going to make the mistake of assuming again.

He looks irritated, and his expression reads, ‘What else would you use?’

Putting my hands up in surrender, I nod and then stand and peer over the edge of the counter. There are three students—none of whom I recognize, which is a blessing. “Sorry, technical difficulties. We’re closed.”

The blonde looks affronted. “But your window is, like, open?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. Then I reach over and shut it just as she starts trying to lean in to look around. Probably not my best move. This is his business, not mine, but I look over, and he’s covering a laugh with the palm of his hand. ‘Did you understand that?’

‘I understood that you closed the window in the person’s face.’

‘Bad?’

He shakes his head, and his gaze darts back to the stool I vacated. My feet move almost like he’s drawing me there with his mind, and I find myself sitting across from him again, this time our knees brushing.

He stares at the contact, then looks back up at me. ‘How’s your hand?’

Is he serious? ‘I didn’t get stung.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asks, then grabs it without waiting for an answer and runs the tips of his fingers over my palm. Only it’s the wrong hand. I’m too fucking selfish and greedy to correct him right away. Instead, I let myself bask in his touch. It sinks under my skin, sparking like a wildfire, and it takes every ounce of my control not to close the distance between us and kiss the absolute fuck out of him.

I know he doesn’t like me, but it’s very obvious he wants me.

‘Wrong hand,’ I finally sign. I say it because I want more of his touch, and his strokes have begun to slow.

He holds my gaze as he takes my other hand and feels along my palm. He swallows so heavily I see it click in the back of his throat. ‘You’ll live,’ he finally signs when he pulls one hand away. He hasn’t let me go, and I don’t give him any indication that I want him to.

The moment lingers, hesitates—honey-thick and full of tension—and then it passes. Just like before.

His hands fall into his lap for a second before he says, ‘I don’t know why that scared me so much. I shouldn’t be afraid of bees.’

‘That was a wasp,’ I remind him. ‘The evil cousin of the bee.’

He laughs and rolls his eyes. ‘My brother tried to cure me of my fear of flying things that sting. But apparently, I still panic like I’m four.’

Grinning, I lean in, bold as I’ve ever been, and gently run my fingers around the stings. They’re already looking less angry. ‘Does he like bees?’

‘He just started beekeeping.’ He spells the word, and I’m not sure if there is a sign for that. If there is, I’ve never seen it. ‘The only thing I don’t hate about it is the honey I get for free. Have you seen how expensive it is these days?’

I burst into laughter. ‘Yeah. Twenty for a jar? Might as well take my firstborn.’

He freezes. ‘You have kids?’

‘Imaginary firstborn,’ I correct. I brandish my left hand. ‘Not married.’

‘That doesn’t mean no kids.’

Fair enough, but it was a great segue into letting him know I’m tragically single. He’s obviously one of those guys who doesn’t date outside of his culture, and I don’t blame him. I spend a lot of time in the community for work and socializing, but I’m a guest there, and there are nuances about it I’ll never be able to fully understand.

But hell, I’m not here looking for a marriage proposal.

The moment stays awkward, and he stands up. Fantastic. I ruined it again, like I always do. I might as well just?—

‘Hungry?’

I blink. Oh, shit. Right. Robbie sent me on this errand for food that neither of us particularly wanted. I still don’t have an appetite, but Mellie’s looking at me expectantly, so I can’t tell him no. ‘Yeah. Make me your favorite.’

His face does something complicated, and then he motions for me to stand up. Moving the stool, he takes the chair, sets it near the cash register, and points at it. Once again, I move like I have no control over my body, and he lets out a fairly loud, satisfied hum when I’m back down on my ass again.

He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders back, and my dick gives a needy twitch. This time, his gaze catches it. Before mortification sinks in, he licks his lips again. The motion is definitely deliberate this time. His mouth is settled in a smirk, and he looks me in the eye before flexing his biceps.

Oh.

Then he turns away. This time, however, the moment isn’t shattered.

This time, there’s heat and the promise of something else, if I can just be patient. And I can safely say the one thing life has taught me is the value of knowing when to run and when to stay and fight for what I want.