Falling Fast

“You okay?” he asks gently, dropping his eyes to my arm, and I tilt my head back to look up at him and nod, feeling his fingers imprinting into my skin where they are touching me.

“I’m okay.” I try to take a step back, but he doesn’t let me go. “Promise. I’m just a little clumsy sometimes.” I smile, not wanting him to think I’m a weirdo, which apparently I am.

“You sure?”

“Positive.” I look up, noticing how tall he is. Even with the added height from my heels, he still has to dip his head to look me in the eye.

“I’m Colton.” He takes a step back, finally releasing his hold on me, and I instantly miss his touch.

Pulling in a much needed breath to fight that ridiculous feeling off, I smile—or try to, but I’m sure it comes off wonky.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, wondering why he’s smiling at me like he is. “I’m supposed to meet Rose for an interview at ten.”

Watching his eyes crinkle in the corners and his smile turn into a grin, I know I’m screwed even before he opens his mouth. “Rose is my mom. She had to run out and asked if I’d interview you this morning.”

“Oh.” I look toward the door, wondering if I should just save myself and make a run for it. Who needs money anyway, right?

“If you’ll follow me, we can go back to the office and get started.” He turns and I give myself a mental pep talk as I follow him down behind the bar, watching his ass, which is probably something I shouldn’t be doing, seeing how he’s the son of the woman who was supposed to interview me. And her name is Rose, leading me to believe she is most likely the owner of this place.

“Have a seat.” He nods toward a chair sitting just inside the door of the small office he leads me into. “Would you like something to drink?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask for a shot of Jack, but instead I mutter, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.” I take a seat and cross my legs once more, watching him grab a file folder off of a shelf, and then I watch as he folds his tall, lean body into a chair directly across from mine.

“Are you new in town?” he asks, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms, and I swallow hard as the space between my legs tingles. His arms are strong and tan, his hands massive, and his fingers long. I can actually picture him sliding those big hands over my body, which is absolutely insane, because I haven’t really wanted a man to touch me in ages. “Gia?” I hear a smile in his voice then see it on his face when I look up at him. I know he expects me to answer his last question, only I’ve already forgotten what it was.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that.”

“It’s all right.” He leans back in his chair, causing it to squeak under his weight. “I was just wondering if you’re new in town?”

“Oh.” I take my bag out of my lap and drop it to the ground near my feet. “Yeah, I just got here a couple of weeks ago.”

“Where are you from?”

“Chicago,” I say, and he tips his head to the side.

“The city? Did you grow up there?”

“Yep, my whole life.” I shrug, and he whistles through his teeth.

“Chicago to Tennessee. That’s a big change. What brings you here?”

“My grandmother lives here and… she wanted me to move closer,” I lie, since my grandma doesn’t even really know who I am. Everyday when she wakes up, I have to explain to her that I’m her granddaughter and not my mom or some stranger living in her house.

“Where did you work in Chicago?” he asks, placing his elbows to his knees and getting closer.

“I worked at a daycare.”

“How long were you there for?”

“Since graduating from college,” I say, and he frowns.

“And now you want to work here?” he questions, sounding genuinely confused. “You do know this is a bar, right?”

“I need a job.” I shrug. One thing my dad always said is that money is money. When you’re paying your rent or buying groceries, it doesn’t matter what you did to earn that money; it just matters that you worked for it.

“This place is a little rough around the edges. Do you think you can handle working here?” His eyes drop to my sweater then boots, making me shift uncomfortably in my chair.

I really should have gone home to change.

“I’m from Chicago,” I use as my answer, since Chicago is one of the most crime-ridden cities in the United States.

“How are you at math?” he asks, looking at the phone on the desk when it starts to ring. Obviously not wanting to talk to whoever is calling, his eyes come back to me.