He leans on the counter, forcing me to take a step back. “Not everything is about you. I didn’t know you worked here. If I did, I would’ve saved myself the trip.”
His jawline really is sharp, too sharp. How old is he? He can’t be any older than I am since he goes to school with Daphne. The memory of his large hands on my waist floods my mind, as does the feeling of him lifting me in his arms. I can’t decide if I’m attracted to him or repulsed by him.
I glance away. “Well, you’re here now. What do you want?”
He straightens up. “That’s a great way to talk to a paying customer.”
I wish I could tell him off, but my manager, Wilma, is within earshot, so all I can do is grit my teeth and force a tight smile on my face. “Fine. How can I help you?”
His face lights up with amusement. “That’s more like it. I’ll have two scoops of chocolate ice cream in a cone.”
“That’s not very original,” I mutter to myself even though nothing is wrong with the choice of flavor other than the facthechose it.
“So,” he says, leaning casually against the glass as I begin to fill his order. “Is red your favorite color?”
I pause scooping and tilt my head at him. “No, why? Because of my dress last night?”
“That. And your nail polish was red. And you had one of those little red decorative scarfs tied to your purse.” His smirk tells me I’m not going to like the rest of his answer even before he continues. “Also the matching panties.”
My mouth drops. “What?”
He looks like he’s trying to maintain a casual demeanor but is failing miserably; he’s way too smug. “When you were kneeling over the cliff last night in that tiny dress, we all got a show.”
My mind reels. Is he lying? I couldn’t have flashed my ass at everyone last night, but then again, how can he be so confident that my underwear was red?
“You’re lying,” I accuse, scooping the ice cream faster and walking over to the cash register. He follows me from the other side of the counter.
“Oh, don’t worry, I blocked everyone’s view before they noticed too much.” He bites back a laugh. He’s enjoying this. He enjoys getting under my skin. It may be his new favorite hobby. He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “But I liked the lace and the cut.”
“I—you—that’s not—” I sputter. He’s not lying. He really got a show last night, since my pantieswerered and lacy, and they didn’t cover much. I hate panty lines, and I like matching my underwear to my outfit.
“Are you sure red isn’t your favorite color? Because even your face is red now,” he teases, this time not bothering to hide how much he’s enjoying my embarrassment.
The indignation burns my face even hotter. Thenerveof him!
Before I can think about it, I smash the ice-cream cone in my hand against his chest. He stares at me, unmoving, eyes wide. Holding on to the cone, I smush the chocolate ice cream around a bit, painting most of his white shirt an unflattering shade of brown.
My hands are a sticky mess, and it isn’t until I step back and view the scene that my actions truly hit me.
Holy shit. Holyshit!I cannot believe I just did that! Why did I do that?
The ice-cream cone slips from my hand and splats onto the counter in a crumbly, goopy mess.
He glances down at the mush on his shirt then back up at me, the shock on his face matching my own.
“Carina!” Wilma booms, running over with a speed she shouldn’t possess for a woman in her seventies. “I’m sorry,” she says to Pink Shorts, handing him a bunch of napkins. “Carina hasneverdone that before. Please choose whatever you want to replace the ice cream, on the house.”
Pink Shorts takes the napkins but doesn’t bother wiping the mess off. He’s too busy studying me. I’m too busy staring at his shirt in horror.
I’ve encounteredmanyhorrible and rude customers during my time here, as most people who work in customer service have. I’ve been called names, yelled at, publicly humiliated, and talked down to, and one kid even puked on me. But never,never, have I done anything other than smile tightly and get through the shift without any type of confrontation on my end, even if the opportunity to mash an ice-cream cone on a rude customer’s head presented itself. I would never put myself out there like that or risk my job. So why, after a mere five-minute interaction with Pink Shorts, did I completely lose my cool?
“I just want the chocolate ice cream,” he says, still watching me. He doesn’t look mad. Instead, he looks intrigued, and maybe even a little amused.
“Of course,” Wilma says, directing her stare at me. “Carina, get him another ice cream.”
She doesn’t leave any room for argument, not that I offer any. I scurry away, my face flaming hot, keeping my head down so the front pieces of my hair that are too short for my ponytail help block my face.
Pink Shorts doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the force of his gaze on me. I wash the mess off my hands before scooping the ice cream silently as Wilma continues to apologize and promise that I don’t make it a habit to throw food on customers. I really don’t, but apparently there’s something about Pink Shorts that can easily rile me up, and I still don’t even know his name.