“I’m actually looking for a job,” I say instead.
I’m not, but he doesn’t need to know that I’m taken care of regardless of if I ever get a legitimate job in my life. Suddenly, I’m smacked in the chest with unease.
I don’t want my brothers telling me what to do or who I can spend my life with, but I cling to them, using them as a safety net for everything. The only way to gain independence is to begin doing things on my own.
The guy across from me grins, watching unknowingly, as I have an existential crisis.
“I think I can help you.”
My eyebrows meet my hairline before narrowing in suspicion.
I lean forward, snarl ready. “If you make some creepy comment about sucking you off or fucking you for some quick cash, I will castrate you with a butter knife.”
His eyes widen comically as his hands shoot up near his ears. “What? No! I wouldn’t—that’s not—”
His head just shakes back and forth, and I instantly feel terrible, realizing very quickly that wasn’t the direction he was going at all. Growing up in the clubhouse has seriously distorted my view of men’s expectations.
“Well, okay,” I say and sit back.
His eyes are like saucers, darting between me and the table with an elderly couple as they begin gathering their things to leave. I wonder if he’s concerned they heard what I said and are leaving to get away from my brand of crazy.
“Mr. and Mrs. Quinn,” the guy across from me says, nodding at the couple as they pass by.
“Dr. Andrews,” the man says before he wraps his arm around his wife’s back and ushers her out of the café.
“Look,” I whisper, leaning in closer even though the waitress is now the only other person besides us in the dining room. “I’m sorry for the outburst. I’m not used to anyone approaching me without—” I wave my hand between us, indicating our prior conversation. I’m not just going to spit it out, but if the man is a doctor, he should be able to infer my direction.
“People only approach you for sex?” He does that low whisper thing again on the last word, and I can’t help but smile.
He’s older, possibly late twenties, if I had to guess, and that’s only from noticing the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. Briar has the same ones.
I shake my head, ridding it of any thought of that man.
“I’m not a hooker,” I state flatly.
His smile widens at the frustration in my voice. “I’m not a pimp.”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my lips. What a strange day.
“That’s good to know.” I drop the blue packet of sweetener on the table and stretch my arm in his direction. “I’m Molly.”
“Owen,” he returns as his hand meets mine. He doesn’t drop it immediately, holding it a few seconds longer than what I’d consider normal for a casual introduction. I find myself enjoying the calluses on his fingers against the soft skin of my own palm.
“So, you’re a doctor?” He releases my hand, the pink once again filling his cheeks.
“An animal doctor,” he specifies. “A veterinarian.”
“Does that embarrass you?” He looks confused. “You blushed when I asked.”
His fingers immediately run over his cheeks. “Most women aren’t very impressed when I explain my love for helping animals.”
“Really? That’s absurd. I love animals.” His grin widens at my declaration. “Of course, I never had a pet growing up. My dad always said there were enough animals around already.”
“So, you have a ranch?”
I’m puzzled for a second until I realize what I’ve said. “Something like that.”
I don’t know if Owen would be impressed with my MC life. Most men I meet are already in the clubhouse, looking for the women, drugs, and partying that they hear about in diluted rumors around town. If I’m going to do things on my own, I have to keep that part of my life separate from everything else.
“Tell me about this job,” I say, steering the conversation away from me and back to him.
“I think you’re gorgeous,” he sputters, rather than going into detail about an employment opportunity.
His hands rake over the top of his hair.
“I’m not particularly good with people,” he explains. “I think that’s why vet medicine suits me. I just wanted you to know before we talk about the receptionist job at my clinic that I find you very attractive.”
My lips roll between my teeth to keep a chuckle from slipping out.
“That’s why I came over to talk with you,” he clarifies as if his reason for approaching me wasn’t obvious in less than thirty seconds.
“Are you saying I’m only asking to be sexually harassed if I take the receptionist job?”
His throat clears, but he doesn’t immediately deny my question.
“I may ask you out on a date.”