Page 28 of Dreaming of Dawson

“Of course,” she says, surprising me, her smile lighting up her face. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m gonna be rushed off my feet.”

I glance around. “No. It’s probably a good thing you’ve started in the winter. Once the weather warms up a bit, we don’t have any quiet times at all… but by the time that happens, you’ll be more used to things.”

Assuming you’re still here.

“I hope so,” she says. “If I’m not used to it by then, I’m doing it wrong.”

It sounds like she’s intending to stay, and again, I can’t help feeling relieved by that thought. It seems odd that I should be so comforted by her presence… and by the prospect of it continuing, but I guess that’s because I need the help, and because she’s good at her job.

That’ll be it.

I turn to go, striding toward the back of the bar, but before I’ve gone more than a few paces, she calls me back and I turn, pulling down my shirt so she can’t see the bulge in the front of my jeans.

“Yes?” I say.

“What did you do before?” she asks, stepping closer.

“Before what?”

“Before I started working here? What did you do about eating? That’s what you’re gonna do now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. And in answer to your question, Maggie worked four evenings a week, so she used to cover while I went upstairs for a while.”

“And the other three evenings?” she asks.

“Karl used to fix me a sandwich, and I’d eat it when things were quiet.”

“That doesn’t sound very healthy,” she says. “You need a break.”

“So do you.”

She tips her head again, although it’s in the other direction this time, and a smile touches at her lips, my imagination going into overdrive, which makes my cock hurt. “I’ve only just got here,” she whispers.

I struggle to concentrate, so I can answer her. “Even so, Karl’s fixed you a salad, which is in the fridge out back. When I get down, you can take a break, if that’s okay with you. I know it means eating really early, but…”

“Them’s the breaks,” she says, grinning.

“They are, I’m afraid.”

She stares up at me and then whispers, “Thank you,” and although I’ve got no reason to deserve her gratitude, I nod my head and turn away, striding to the back of the bar.

Upstairs, I find a pizza in the deep freeze and put it in the oven. It’s not ideal, and it’s certainly not healthy, but I wasn’t expecting to do this today. Besides, as far as I’m concerned, it’s the liquid element of my meal that’s more important. I was sensible enough to pour away the remains of my drink before Macy arrived, just in case she discovered the true contents of my glass. It seemed like a wise move, and I can fix another one when I get back down there, while she’s having her break.

Even so, I have a half bottle of vodka stashed in the kitchen cabinet, and I pour myself a glass and sit on the couch, waiting for my pizza to cook. Macy seemed confident she could manage, but I can’t help worrying… or, to be more precise, I can’t help thinking about her, and how sexy she looked when she walked through the door. That’s probably because of my dream, and as I sip my drink, moments of it flash before my eyes… her firm breasts, her hardened nipples, her shaved pussy, and how much I want to taste it. And then I remember her lips, and how I pictured them wrapped around my dick when she smiled. God… what a thought.

My cock is bone hard, and I put down my glass, so I can focus, and stroke myself through my jeans. Twice in one day is unheard of for me since Stevie left. In fact, it was unheard of for about the last five years of our marriage… long before she met Peony’s ex. That wasn’t a conscious decision. It wasn’t an indication that we were unhappy, either. It was just that life had a habit of getting in the way… life and exhaustion. We still had our mornings, and we treasured them… and every so often, regardless of how tired we were, one or other of us would start something after work, and somehow I’d see it to fruition.

This feels different, though. Different to anything I’ve ever felt before. My cock feels harder. My need feels greater. I can’t explain why that is… and I don’t think I want to try.

Chapter Seven

Macy

Despite my cheerful disposition, I’ve never enjoyed the month of January. It’s always cold and generally dark and miserable, and – unlike during December – it seems like there’s nothing to look forward to, except more of the same. I guess that’s why I feel relieved that we’ve reached the end of the month. Tomorrow is February first, and it feels like a new beginning.

That’s not to say January has been all bad.

My new job is going well. I’ve gotten used to the routine now, and I’ve even learned a few of the customers’ names and memorized some of their favorite drinks, which caught Dawson’s attention the first time it happened. The customer concerned was Angela. I don’t know her last name yet, but I know she’s married to Levi, who owns the auto repair shop, and I’d served the two of them often enough to know that she likes dry white wine, and he drinks Corona.

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