I shook my head and said, “Te amo,” blurting out the first thing on my mind.
I didn’t realize what I’d said until Asher sent me a confused grin. “Te amo? What does that mean?”
I froze, my mouth opening, but no words coming. I totally hadn’t meant to say that. He’d just been so cute with his OCD bottle arrangement and his voice flooding me with a happy, content feeling; the words had poured out.
“Uh...” Thinking way too slowly for my own taste, I said, “You know...good job...with your stocking abilities. I think you could win some kind of award with such damn fine alcohol shelving.”
The tops of his cheeks brightened as he strolled toward me. But then he shook his head and grinned. “Shut up, smart-ass.”
I loved the way he walked—that unintentional swagger in his hips was just so incredibly male. It was nothing like the cock-and-go Jodi had tried to teach me and had nothing to do with hip movement. It was in the arms, his posture, and even the way his thighs were spaced. It was just so confident and slow. There was no way “Sticks” could ever cop a walk like that, and thank goodness; I’d probably want to do myself if I could.
“Did you get it done already?” He reached out to take the box from me.
I didn’t answer, could only watch as he pulled out a folder and started flipping through the spreadsheets I’d made. “Hey, these are awesome. Thanks, man.”
I studied his expression, the eager appreciation making something heat in my belly. I cleared my throat, noticing he’d gone back to humming “Take Me to Church” under his breath as he looked over my work.
“You really love to sing, don’t you?” I mused.
“Yeah. Sure.” A grin split across his face. “I definitely didn’t go the rocker route because I wanted a mob of women to attack me everywhere I went.”
I laughed.
“Actually,” he shrugged, “another reason I was so determined to be in a band was so I could piss off my dad.”
Now he sounded like me. I’d recently gotten my purple highlights pretty much just to piss off my uncle, who hated unnatural hair colors.
Splaying my hands out as if reading a nameplate on an office door, I said, “Asher Hart, rebel singer.”
He smiled lightly. “My old man used to knock the shit out of me every time he caught me singing when I was a kid. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I’d just be playing with my Tonka trucks, you know, minding my own business and trying to stay out of his way, when wham...out of nowhere I’d get a wallop on the back of my head. He’d tell me to cut the singing shit out because it was gay.”
“Shit,” I murmured. I’d known he’d been abused, but to hear actual details tore me up. Tío Alonso had been a strict motherfucker and never seemed to hold back on punishments, but he’d never physically struck me aside from a couple slaps on the back of the hand with kitchen utensils.
Asher sent me a sudden, mischievous grin, which told me his bad childhood hadn’t kept too tight of a hold on him. “If I didn’t love boobs so much, I probably would’ve turned gay too, just to piss him off even more.”
My breasts tingled at his words, making me wish I could unleash them on him and let him enjoy my boobs. But then I remembered I was in guy mode. Gay guy mode. So I said, “Well, that’s a damn shame,” and I wiggled my eyebrows as if to tempt him to the other side.
He let out a full laugh and bumped my arm. “Sorry,” he offered with an amused grin that was so freaking adorable it sizzled my hormones.
This guy was going to be the death of me. The more time I spent with him, the more I liked him and the more attractive he grew.
“I should probably get back up front.” He hitched his head toward the door. “You want a beer or anything?”
Totally not ready to leave him yet, I nodded. “Sure.”
I followed him from the storeroom, then waited in the hall as he dropped the Non-Castrato box off in the break room. Once we made it back into the main area, he slid behind the bar and went to fetch me an Angry Orchard, which gave his coworker a moment to slide up across the counter from me and whisper, “Learn his tell yet?”
I scowled. “Shut up.”
He only laughed as he moved to the other end of the bar to serve a customer.
“What was that about?” a curious Asher asked, glancing between the two of us as he opened my bottle and set it in front of me.
God bless my mask; he couldn’t see my blush. I was able to play it off by shrugging and lifting the malt liquor to my lips. “How should I know? I’m only fluent in Spanish and English, not Asshole.”
Asher laughed. “Good one.”
Had I mentioned how much I loved his laugh? But I loved even more how I seemed to always be able to make him laugh. He liked me, not just as some pretty girl he’d seen in a shower or someone singing on stage. He liked me, the person.