Page 16 of On the Line

“Done early, Jimbo?” he says as a welcome.

Hanging my purse on the hooks under the bartop, I roll my eyes and give him a saccharine smile. “Thought I’d make use of that free drink per shift we get before heading home.”

“Good call,” he answers with a smirk, before focusing back on the order of oysters he’s shucking.

Turning my attention to Quinn, who’s come up to take my order, I take full advantage and ask for a Beaujolais—one that’s now way above my means. When they come back with my wine, I take my first indulgent sip while my gaze naturally lands back on Ozzy.

I try my hardest not to overthink why I can never seem to keep my eyes off of him for long when he’s around. I chew my inner lip distractedly, toying with the stem of the wine glass while I study him.

The sleeves of his chef jacket are pushed up his forearms, his muscles corded with the skilled movements of his hands. I get lost in the repetition of his actions, shucking one oyster after another, then plating them on a bed of crushed ice.

“So where did you disappear to last Friday?” he asks all too innocently.

“What?” I say out of reflex, snapping my eyes up to his. My cheeks heat hoping he didn’t notice me ogling his hands just now. It takes a few seconds for his question to load. “Oh, uh—” I laugh nervously, playing with my hair. “Yeah, sorry about that … something came up, I didn’t have time to find you.”

I’ve had a few days to come up with a legitimate excuse but I still manage to serve him the vaguest answer to ever exist on planet Earth. I try not to visibly cringe.

He studies me for a beat, and I consider running out the front door.

Instead, he changes the subject.

“Ever had an oyster, new girl?”

I let out a small relieved laugh and shake my head. “No actually … which is a little surprising considering the circles I grew up in.”

“And which circles are those?” he asks distractedly, head down while shucking another oyster.

I immediately regret divulging that detail, hoping Ozzy doesn’t pick up on the context clues. I evade the question as best I can. “I just mean, I’ve been around oysters before. Never had one though.”

“Would you like to?”

“Not really, no,” I answer quickly with a dry chuckle and a shake of the head.

His lip curls upwards, ocean eyes looking up to find mine. “Where’s your sense of adventure, sweetheart?”

I sigh dramatically. “Iamadventurous.” His gaze darkens as it lingers on me, seemingly turning what I just said into an innuendo. I ignore the small shift in tone, take asip of my wine, and shrug. “They just don’t look appetizing, that's all.”

“Well.” Throwing a dry rag over his shoulder, he leans his fists onto the bar, gaze full of mirth. “It’s because you’ve never had me make one for you.”

“Oh?” I say amused, “And what makesyour oystersso special?” The comment is meant as a joke but my smile drops, suddenly worried he’ll take it the wrong way. I watch his facial expression carefully, expecting his mood to turn sour, but instead he barks a laugh and my body inadvertently relaxes at the sound.

“You’re about to find out.” He shoots me a wink, perching one of his closed fists on his hip while still leaning toward me. “Trust me.”

His tone is smooth and reassuring, and my chest blooms with warmth.

I stay silent for a beat, studying him, not sure what to say. I don’t know how to tell him that I usually stick to familiar foods. That meals I’ve eaten a thousand times before feel the safest and the most comforting, especially when I’m overwhelmed. How I can’t eat food with certain textures without completely losing my appetite. It’s not that I don’t like to be adventurous, it’s just that when it comes to food … I’d rather stick to what I know.

But something about Ozzy’s gentle expression makes me want to say yes, even if it feels irrationally scary.

I nod slowly, hesitantly. “Okay.”

He perks up, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. Reaching for an oyster, he places it on the counter and grips a rag over top of it. The small shucking knife disappears into the shell, pushing and then twisting with his wrist.

His movements are a little slower this time, his actionsmore deliberate. Brows furrowed, forehead slightly creased behind his blue bandana. Watching someone shuck an oyster shouldn’t be this tantalizing. But as usual, when it comes to Ozzy, I can’t look away.

After cracking the oyster, he carefully garnishes it. I recognize the essentials: Mignonette—made from red shallots, pepper, and red wine vinegar—a pinch of fresh horseradish, and a squeeze of lemon.

I’m surprised to find my mouth watering at the sight. I convince myself it’s just the promise of an oyster and has nothing to do with the skilled hands holding it.

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