Page 44 of The End of Summer

“Okay. So now I know.” She smiles, and I feel a little better.

“I just don’t want you hating me again.”

“Brady, it would be really hard to hate you now that I’ve seen your bare ass cheeks.”

I feel the heat rise up into my face. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“Okay. My turn for a question.”

“Please.” I motion to her with my wooden spoon. Then, I stir her soup.Almost ready.

“Are you planning on strippingevery night?”

“Truth?” I ask. “I think I’ve found my heart’s passion, the art of the full-body shave.” I laugh. “No. I honestly didn’t plan to do more than just one night – yesterday should have been my first and last time visiting you at work.”

“So, what brought you back?”

“Opportunity knocked. I mean, you really can’t hate on a place that’s doling out cash like that. Also, I’ve got bills to pay, and much to my surprise, money does not grow on trees.”

“I still can’t believe your father kicked you out of your house.”

“Yeah, he’s a delight,” I agree, pouring her soup into a bowl. I grab a spoon and a fork from the utensil drawer and carry the meal over to Luis’ dining room table. “Here. Have a seat.” She does. Gretchen wraps a long braid of noodles around her fork and blows carefully before taking a bite.

“This actually hits the spot,” she says once she swallows. “Thank you.”

“House special,” I reply. “Anyway, to your point, it was all just stupid family drama. I didn’t want to work for Diamond Excelsior long term, anyway. Being an assistant manager at a country club restaurant is not exactly my dream job.”

“No, I can see that,” she deadpans. “Swinging around your sperm worm for the masses, though. Life goals, am I right?” She takes a sip of the broth from her spoon.

I grin. “Last night was actually a new low for me. That was the first time I’d ever done that.”

“Same. It’s one thing to hand out shots, but it’s quite another to swing around on a pole all nightlong. I may have given myself vertigo at one point. I’m not exactly what you’d call a natural.”

“Think you’ll do it again?” I ask.

She considers the question. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How bad you think I was.” Her expression challenges me.

“You were great,” I reply, meaning it.

“Stop it.” She takes another bite of noodles, smirking.

“You were,” I insist. “You were beautiful.”

“Were?”

“Are.”

An awkward silence descends upon the space between us. She’s smiling into her soup, and a hearty slurp punctuates the otherwise possibly sensual moment.

“What about you?” she asks. “You think you’ll keep stripping?”

“Depends,” I say, echoing her answer.

“On what?”

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