Page 20 of The Close-Up
Simon rolls his eyes as a smile tugs at his lips. “When you stop pestering me.”
“Not gonna happen.”
He folds his arms across his chest and sighs, his expression playful. “Fine. Egg tarts are better than running. There. Happy now?”
I flash what I hope is a smile that’s equal parts smug and sweet. “See? Was that so hard?”
He shakes his head and his smile turns wolfish. He gently pats my arm, nodding toward the entrance of the bakery. “Come on. The sooner we get in there and order, the quicker you’ll be stuffing your face and I won’t have to listen to you gloat.”
Together we jump into the ten-customer-deep line. I was right about the fast-friends feelings I had the other day. Even though we haven’t known each other long, Simon definitely feels like a friend at this point. Each day the awkward moments are fewer and farther between. And playful teasing is another hallmark of getting to know Simon better. As important as it is to me to maintain professional boundaries with him, it’s been fun joking around and getting to know him better on this retreat.
As we wait our turn in line, I notice the attention Simon gets right away and smile to myself. It’s been like this every other morning we’ve come here. I don’t blame the half-dozen people in the vicinity who all slowly turn their gazes on him. Tall and broad Simon looks dashing even in worn jeans and a rumpled hoodie, his hair mussed to high heaven.
At least his admirers are discreet about it. They do quick, seconds-long glances before turning back to the menu board or their phones. Except for the teenage boy behind the counter who stops mid-crouch at the display container to gawk at him with wide, unblinking eyes before the older lady at the register snaps at him to hurry up. He’s stared at Simon with heart eyes every day we’ve seen him at the bakery.
I’ve always been a woman who had more female friends than male friends, so being out and about with my hot male work colleague and witnessing all the attention he receives is entertaining.
Simon leans down to me. “Can you imagine if this place existed in San Francisco?” He nods his head to the glass-front displays near the counter, which hold dozens of delectable baked goods. “The hype train would hit it instantly and we’d never be able to get in. The line would be miles long.”
“All the more reason to come here as often as possible,” I say. “I’m gonna miss it when we head back to the city.”
The line moves forward and we take a step up, but then the woman standing in front of us tumbles back, crashing into Simon.
He steadies her with both hands on her arms and casts a watchful glance over her. “You okay?”
She nods, a slow smile crawling across her face. She looks like a taller, leggier version of Margot Robbie. She also looks positively smitten to be in Simon’s arms right about now.
“Yes, thank you. Sorry about that. It’s these wedges. Still trying to break them in.”
She glances down at her towering sandals, then tugs at the hem of her navy blue romper. “No worries.” Simon gives her a light tap on the arm before letting her go.
Instead of turning back to the front of the line and ordering like I expect her to do, she stays standing and staring at Simon.
“I’m so clumsy.” She chuckles, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers.
I have to bite my lip to keep from chuckling at her very obvious flirting. But Simon doesn’t seem to be fazed. Judging by his non-reaction at all the attention he received when we first walked into Lorelai’s, he’s clearly aware of his effect on people and doesn’t seem to care.
“It’s really fine,” Simon says, his cheeks growing pinker the longer she looks at him.
But before she can go any further, the customer ahead of her pays and leaves.
“Next!” the lady at the register shouts.
Margot’s sexy smile takes on a sheepish edge. “I guess that’s me. Thanks for breaking my fall.”
“Sure thing,” Simon says.
She turns away, orders, picks up her pastry, then strolls to the entrance of the store, giving Simon one last dose of googly eyes before brushing past him and disappearing.
“Well, then,” I say.
He chuckles and we order. With our bag of egg tarts, we snag the empty bench right in front of the store front window. I open the bag, inhale, and groan.
“Should I leave you and the bag alone for a minute? I feel like a third wheel here.”
I pull out a tart, hand it to him, and dig one out for myself. I take a giant bite and close my eyes the moment the rich custard coats my tongue.
“Oh my god,” I say around a mouthful.
