Page 30 of Late Fees

He handed me a roll of paper towels before spraying down the sinks with cleaning solution. Within seconds, all I could smell were lemons and bleach.

“Nope. I was running late and didn’t have time to stop for breakfast.”

“That’s a shame.” Rolling the paper towels around my hand, I gave him a warm smile.

“Want to get one after work?” he asked with eyebrows raised. “With me?”

“Oh,” I said, “Sure, why not. I think we get off at the same time—”

“We do,” Kevin said.

Quickly, he ran the faucet and sprayed more cleaning solution into the sink bowl. We cleaned in silence for a minute or so.

“I don’t like cinnamon rolls,” I said and then paused, feeling foolish. “Wow, that was random.”

“Oh.” Kevin’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at me with blank eyes.

“I just mean that—”

“No, it’s cool. We don’t have to—”

“Oh, shit, that’s not what I meant.” I shook my head, closing my eyes and feeling ridiculous. Flirting with guys was never a problem for me. What was my deal?

“Can I start over?” I asked, clapping my gloved hands together. “I still want to grab some food. Maybe just…not something with cinnamon in it. I, uh, I hate cinnamon.”

“And all this time, I thought you liked how I smelled,” Kevin said, looking dejected.

“That’s the weird thing. I love the smell, hate the taste. Like, hate it so much it makes me want to hurl.”

“Gross.”

I shrugged. “I mean, we are in a bathroom.”

Kevin laughed. “Okay, no cinnamon of any kind.”

“Thanks.”

“Pizza? We could get a slice next door.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. My stomach was growling when I was up at the desk.” I shrugged. “I skipped breakfast, too, and I swear the smell of garlic and tomato sauce was permeating through the walls.”

“Ah, so you volunteered to help me to get away from the smell of pizza?”

“I hadn’t thought about that.” I tilted my head to the side. “But maybe I did. My stomach hasn’t growled once since being in here. But then again, if it did, that would be a little weird.”

“Right?” Kevin laughed. “Okay, pizza, then.”

“Yep,” I said, grabbing the toilet brush from under the sink. “Pizza.”

Part of me was hoping that Kevin would make some cute, little grand gesture by offering to scrub the men’s toilets.

He didn’t.

But I didn’t hold it against him.

“Oh, God, that’s hot!” I waved the heat away from me, trying desperately not to burn my tongue on my first bite of piping hot deep-dish pizza. Hot air poured from my mouth, and I tilted my head up, totally embarrassed that I’d been too eager to bite into it, even though the steam warned me that this would happen.

When it came to pizza, I had very little self-control.

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