“I’ve got it. Get them home. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow, Kian?”
“I’ll be here,” I reply.
She gets in the driver’s seat and pulls away, leaving me, a shirtless wonder of a man, and a truck full of doo-doo. This should be fun.
Archer
I’m going to kill Sara. I know I said it was fine for her to take the kids home, but it is so not okay. I don’t know this guy. Kian, I think is what he said his name was. It suits him. Quirky and cute. I can’t deny the attraction that sparked when we shook hands, even though I want to.
He’s shorter and much smaller than me, and he dresses kind of nerdy with suspenders and a bow tie on. He’s cute, in an adorable kind of way with his big hazel eyes and slicked back brown hair. But it’s his grin that gives the most pause. Sideways and toothy. Like he has a joke on the tip of his tongue at all times that he’s holding back.
He’s nothing like Mason. Mason was big, like me, and he smiled with his whole face, his cheeks swallowing his eyes with the hugeness of it. Not that I’m comparing the two. They’re incomparable. Mason was everything and Kian, he’s just a guy who owns the bar my kid sister works at.
“So, I guess we should get to scrubbing,” Kian says.
“You don’t have to help. Just leave the supplies and I’ll have Sara bring them back tomorrow.” I offer because cleaning up shit requires a level of intimacy we don’t share.
“I’m actually a pro at cleaning up bodily fluids.” He shoots me a pointed look. “Don’t ask.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Because, gross. But I still smirk.
We take our positions on opposite sides of the truck, me on the driver’s side and him on the passenger. It’s an older model with one long bench seat. Lou’s booster chair is on the passenger side and Emmy’s shit-stained car seat is in the middle. It wouldn’t be a big deal if the car seat had caught all of the shit. I could throw it in the bed of the truck and Sara could hose it down and wash the padding at home, but the shit was very liquidy, and it seeped clear into my fabric seat.
“Good God, that smell.” Kian retreats a few steps.
I gag and choke, backing up. “I can’t do it. I’ll have to get the truck towed to the junkyard.”
“No, don’t do that. We’ve got this. One step at a time. I’ll climb in and unhook the seat. You pull it out and throw it in the back.” Kian lifts the neckline of his shirt over his nose. It reminds me I can’t do the same because I’m topless. Fuck, how did I get myself into this situation?
I nod and watch as Kian climbs in, audibly breathing through his mouth. I don’t know how he isn’t barfing all over the place. My niece is cute, but dammit, she’s toxic. He hastily undoes the seat belt and pulls it out from where it’s latched. I grab it and hurl it into the truck bed.
“Oh my God.” Kian looks down at the stained seat, his eyes watering. “Okay, we can do this. Grab the bucket of water and pour about a cup of vinegar in it.” The way he says water and vinegar sounds almost like watah and vinegah. He must’ve grown up in Maine, but worked on losing the accent.
We spend the next ten minutes taking turns scrubbing and choking on fumes. It’s disgusting and even though I didn’t want his help originally, I never would’ve been able to make it through this without him.
I can’t help but notice Kian takes an interest in me while I clean. I regret not keeping a spare change of clothes in my truck.
Sara said her boss was gay when she told me about her job. She hinted about setting me up with him, which led to further conversations. One, being how I wasn’t ready. And another, about how even if I were ready, her trying to set me up with a guy simply because he’s gay is like me trying to set her up with a man simply because he’s straight. It’s ignorant and rude.
“Thank you,” I say when all the cleaning supplies have been collected and there’s a dry towel sitting over the wet spot.
“No problem. You want to come in for a drink while that airs out a little?”
I think about it. A drink sounds fantastic after an experience like that, but I also haven’t done any socializing in over a year. I’m rusty. And he might ask questions about my past. I’m not prepared for that conversation with anyone. I barely even talk about it with Sara.
“I don’t have a shirt.” I motion to my naked torso, thinking I’ve found the perfect excuse.
“That is a problem since we have a no shirt, no shoes policy, but it’s one I can solve. Follow me.” He waves over his shoulder and I trail behind. We go through a back exit and into a small kitchen where a tall, thick, and kind of scary man is preparing a cheese plate.
“About time you came back,” the man says and then looks up. “And you brought your own snack.”
“Not exactly. Duke, this is Archer, Sara’s brother. We were cleaning up a little mess in his truck.” Kian digs through a bin on a metal shelving unit. He pulls out a black tee with Focus written in gold fancy script. “Here we go.”
He tosses it over to me and I hold it out. It’s a large, so it’ll be tight, but whatever.
“A mess, huh? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” Duke waggles his brows.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Duke.” Kian walks over to a hand washing station and dumps half a container of soap into his palm. “You want to get in on this?”
“I do.” I pull the shirt on, thankful to not feel so exposed anymore, and step up to the sink, shoulder to shoulder with Kian. I pump a few squirts of soap on my hands and scrub the shit out of them. I go to rinse at the same time Kian does, and our hands meet. I’m the first to jerk mine away.
“Sorry. Hand washing hazard,” he jokes and rinses. When he’s pulled out a couple paper towels, I rinse my own. “All right. How about that drink?”
“Take this cheese plate to table four while you’re out there,” Duke says.
Kian huffs, but takes it through a swinging door. I follow him. It leads to the space behind the bar. The vibe is chill in here. Rich woods with emerald green and gold accents. It looks expensive and swanky. I take a seat on one of the barstools.
Kian delivers the cheese plate, his eyes staying on me the whole time as I try not to notice. When he returns, he takes his place behind the bar. He looks comfortable and at ease. Unlike me, who can’t stop shifting in my seat and looking around. Anything to avoid his scrutiny. I know he’s trying to figure me out.
“What’ll it be? We mostly have wine, but I also have Jim, Jack, Johnny Red, Johnny Black, and Jose.” He reaches down and pulls up five bottles. “All my favorite men.”
He laughs at what I think is a joke. But I don’t understand the reference, so I stare at him blankly.
“Oh, come on. Haven’t you seen Coyote Ugly?” he asks.
“Coyote what?
“Ugly.” He huffs out a breath. “It was a joke. I keep a stocked bar. What’ll you have?”
“Can you make a whiskey ginger?”
“Sure can.” He busies himself opening a can of ginger ale and squeezing a wedge of lime into the highball glass. When it’s done, he proudly places it in front of me.