Page 17 of Mitch

“Ar... Archie and I are on the clock,” I said, swallowing nervously.

“No, we aren’t,” Archie quipped. “This was the last job for the day. The shop’s already closed up.”

Mitchell grinned, and the sight was like hot, melted chocolate ganache over sponge cake.

Fuck.

“Sounds to me like you’re pretty free,” he said smoothly. “Besides, we do have something to celebrate.”

I tried to focus on not melting into a puddle on the floor because everything was converging on me at once.

“I guess...” I said, biting my lip, if only to quell the sudden urge to curse out of panic. “Wait... We do?” I asked. I didn’t miss the light stroke of his fingertips along my spine, sending a shiver throughout my entire body.

It was as soothing as it was new.

Different.

I looked at Mitchell, under the bright neon, and something in his dark gaze settled my anxiety.

“Yeah, our partnership,” he said, flashing me with a smirk.

“Partnership...” I said the words like I didn’t know how to speak English, which was insane.

I could technically speak two languages. English and French.

But under Mitchell’s gaze, I could barely speak Caveman.

Mitchell gently pushed against my back, coaxing me to follow him.

I needed to get out of this tight space. I needed to breathe.

“Uh... I guess, one drink wouldn’t hurt.”

CHAPTER 8

Mitch

“Hey,Mitch, what can I get ya?” Henry drawled from behind the bar.

I’d pulled a couple shifts myself over the years, but I wasn’t technically on the M’s Place payroll.

But I had to admit, watching Henry sling drinks with ease made me miss the craziness of the weekends, not to mention the tips.

But I didn’t miss the drunk assholes throwing up all over the bathroom.

“Going to switch it up from my warm up beer to a rum and coke,” I said as Iturned toward Penn.

“What about you, Cream Puff? What’s your poison?”

Watching Penn’s cheeks flush like a freshly steamed tomato every time I called him such only fueled my desire to keep doing it.

He looked pretty fucking cute all flustered, and maybe I was a glutton for punishment.

“I, um, I don’t really drink a lot, so I’m not sure?—”

“You are old enough to drink, right?” I asked, momentarily wondering if maybe I’d assumed too much, but Penn only blew some fluffy, golden-hued hair out of his eyes with a bratty little huff.

“Of course, I’m old enough. I’m twenty-three.”

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