Free More than Friends - Monica Murphy by Monica Murphy

and neither do I. I’m not sure why he continues to bother with it.
    “Stop,” I whisper, flicking my head in Lauren’s direction. I rest my palms against the counter and lean over it a little, my face practically in Tuttle’s. “Go be with your girlfriend.”
    “She’s not my girlfriend,” he whispers back, his hands coming dangerously close to mine.
    “She’s your queen.” I snatch my hands away from the counter and point at his crown. “Congrats on winning.”
    His face betrays nothing and he doesn’t bother acknowledging my statement. “When did you start working here?”
    I lift my chin, trying for determined and cool and collected. Most likely failing miserably. “A few days ago.”
    “You like it?”
    I shrug. “It’s a job. I need the money.”
    Tuttle studies me closely, like he can see right through me, and I want to take my words back. Somehow, he knows I’m lying. Well, I’m not really lying, but I am sad I wasn’t able to go to the game tonight. I love football. I love watching our boys play, and they’ve gotten so much better this year. They have a real chance to make it to the playoffs, and that’s incredible.
    But I won’t get to experience any of it. I’ll be too busy working every Friday night, making approximately fifty dollars for my time served.
    “You’ll be missed,” he finally says, his voice still low. Intimate. Like we’re sharing a deep, dark secret. “I liked seeing you in the stands at every game.”
    I raise a brow, in full on skepticism mode. I can’t help it. He says things like that and I don’t believe him. Yet some part of me deep down inside does believe him. It’s incredibly confusing.
    “You didn’t even notice me.”
    “I always noticed you, even when you were in band.” He pauses. “I’ve told you that before. Why don’t you believe me?”
    The sincerity in his tone almost makes me want to laugh. Or throw myself at him. I’m not sure which option is worse.
    I brace my hands on the counter once more, mimicking his position. “I always feel like you’re yanking my chain, Tuttle.”
    He smirks, and it’s adorable. Sexy. “Right back at you, Winters.” And then he does the most incredible thing. Without saying a word, without any indication of what he was about to do, he scoots his hand closer to mine, reaching out to graze the top of my hand with just his pinky finger.
    I feel that touch all the way down to my toes. It’s like he electrified me. Reminded me that I’m alive. And he’s the only one who can make me feel like that.
    The only one.
     

     
    “Does it always take this long to clean up on a Friday night?” I stuff the mop into the yellow bucket and wring it out, frowning when I notice all the dark brown water floating inside. It’s disgusting. The entire shop was disgusting once we cleared everyone out.
    “Nah. Tonight was an exception, with the homecoming game and all. Though it’s always pretty busy when there’s a home game,” Blake says as he finishes cleaning up the toppings station. He made a huge deal about it earlier, like his taking on that particular task was some sort of favor to me, but I don’t know.
    Mopping definitely sucks.
    We closed over thirty minutes ago and we’re still cleaning. When I finally finish mopping, I guide the bucket out through the back door, dumping the dirty water in the nearby drain. The air is cool, tinged with the faint biting hint of autumn, and my gaze snags on the black Range Rover sitting in the mostly empty lot.
    No. It can’t be.
    But I think it…might be.
    I’m incredulous. Seriously? Really? I’m tempted to march out to that car, knock on the window and demand that he leave, but who am I to do that? It’s a public parking lot.
    And maybe it isn’t him. There are a lot of black Range Rovers in the world. I’m just fixated on him so I think he’s everywhere. Like I’m some sort of obsessed psycho.
    Pushing all thoughts of him out of my brain, I go back into the shop and