When I return to the bakery that night, the place is lit up inside but otherwise empty. I try the doorknob. It's unlocked, so I step inside feeling like I'm breaking and entering. Maybe not breaking, but definitely entering. Half of a crime. A mild misdemeanor.

     "We're not open," a gruff voice calls out before the person joins me in the room, carrying a large box that mostly hides their face. He bends over to set the box down and then stands up, wiping his hands on his well-tailored jeans as he stares at me. Clearly, he's wondering what I'm doing here. I'm sort of wondering the same thing.

     My brain tells me to respond, but my body protests. I make a weird sound, tongue-tied for reasons I don't understand. "Um, I came by earlier today. The owner, she uh, she hired me."

     One of his brows lifts slowly, but his eyes remain intensely focused on mine. He's challenging me to not look anywhere else, which is a challenge, though I already took stock of his body. He's a strange and intimidating combination of muscle and tattoos, deep-set eyes and sharp cheekbones, soft bow lips and an overly pronounced Adam's apple. Everything about him contradicts itself. Makes him both fascinating to look at and entirely too much at the same time. Like a provocative piece of art that you can only absorb in glances and peeks.

     "Dolores," he barks without a single word to me, though his stare remains fixed. I fidget under his steady green? blue? green-blue? gaze. One of his eyebrows furrows, always the one seemingly, and I start to think his staring isn't a challenge but more like a demand to look away. So I don't, because now it feels like he wants me to.

     Too much staring later, the woman I met earlier comes bustling into the room, wielding a paintbrush. She's wearing a startled expression like his voice has just woken her from a deep sleep. Who is this guy? Obviously this woman is Dolores, the owner, so is he someone else she hired?

     The guy gestures to me with one hand. He does it while somehow managing to continue staring at me. The whole stare-down is beginning to grate my nerves. "You hired someone," he says flatly.

     Dolores brushes her face absentmindedly with her paintbrush, spreading white paint along her cheek. "Oh, right! Is it five thirty already? Good golly, time just flies. Give me a second, I'll be right back." She darts out of the room before either of us can say anything.

     I break our gaze, finally, blinking rapidly as if he has scorched my retinas with laser vision. Maybe he has.

     My eyes draw elsewhere, raking down his defined arms that are covered in sleeves of tattoos. The reality is that he is covered in tattoos, at least from what I can tell. The tattoos running along his neck disappear into the line of his shirt begging the question of what lies beneath the thin fabric. 

     We stand in silence. I shift unsurely. I feel my wet hair drip down the back of my neck, disappearing into the collar of my shirt. I'd had a quick shower after practice and changed so I could make it here by five thirty.

     He turns his head to the side, thoughtfully drawing my gaze from his arms so they can return to his face. "So," he says breaking our well-framed silence. "Dolores hired you?"

     "Uh yeah," I respond with a nod.

     "For what position?" he asks kind of like he already knows that my actual hiring wasn't particularly formal. I hadn't given her my resume. She hadn't asked me what my schedule was like. It was pretty spur of the moment.

     I answer vaguely, "Uh, well, you know, the position that she, uh, needed to fill."

     "The position she needed to fill," he repeats.

     "Uh huh," I say as Dolores returns thank god. Save me lady. This man is scary. Hot, too. But I'm trying not to notice.

     She comes up beside the tattooed guy with a manila folder in hand. She says, "He's going to help you get the finishing touches on this place done. And then he can work behind the counter."

    My brain tries to play catch up with the facts as I say quickly, "I can do all that." If I'm helping him get the finishing touches done, then this must be his place. Making him my boss. Meaning I have a hot AF boss. This changes everything.

     "I told you," the guy says looking at Dolores but she cuts him off with, "You can't do this on your own." 

     They glare at each other in silence, and the resemblance between them becomes very apparent in their similar stares. He has her nose. Is she his older sister? No, she looks far older than him, and he looks pretty young. Maybe early twenties. She must be his mother.

     She ends the glare, turning to face me with a graceful smile. "You said your name was Calvin, right?"

     "Yeah but you can call me Cas," I say with a nod. She gestures me over to one of the tables as she takes a seat. I shift again, unsurely, before joining her at the table. Clearly she was never given the okay to hire someone.

     "Never mind the fact this is my place," the guy mutters before walking out.

     "Don't mind him, he's always grumpy," she says the exact way a mother tends to talk about their kids. She opens the folder and hands me an application. "I just need this information for the books," she says as way of explanation, handing over a pen. I start to fill in the lines, putting down my name, my address and cell phone number, as well as my availability. When I finish, I slide the paper back to her.

     "You're on your school's swim team, right?" she asks as she looks at the paper. I nod my head. "That's nice. I always tried to get Dres to join a sport but he's so antisocial." She looks up at me like she's just seen a ghost. "Don't tell him I said that."

     Dres. I run my tongue along the back of my teeth like I've just said his name aloud.

     She slides a finger down the paper. "So you're willing to come in during the mornings and evenings?"

     I shake my head, agreeing with what she's saying and also physically trying to shake his name off. "Yeah, I have practice early, and my classes don't start until nine on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays so I have two hours free. If you need me I can be here and I don't mind."

     "That's great. Okay. Perfect. We're trying – well...he's trying to open in a week. I'm just hired unpaid help. Of course, you'll be paid. A perk of not being part of the family." She scribbles across a sheet of paper, glancing between the one I slid her and the one she's writing on, probably checking the hours I said I could work.

     She slides the paper to me. "So, this would be a probationary schedule. We'll say for the first three weeks, and then Dres will probably adjust it to how busy this place actually gets. If you don't want to work that much I can take off some shifts..."

     I look down at the paper. It's an abundance of hours, more than I expected but I'm not going to complain.

     "No, no this is great. I really need the money and my mom's been riding my ass – me to get a job." I clear my throat on the curse word that almost slips.

     Dolores smiles. "So the job pays minimum wage, $8.50 an hour. It is a two-week pay period that ends on Sunday. You'll get your checks on Tuesday. How old are you?"

     "Uh, eighteen," I answer unsurely. She nods her head like this was something she suspected and then slides another form to me.

     "Perfect." She stands then, holding the paper with the temporary schedule on it. "I'm going to make a copy of this in the office so you can have one. You can go see Dres. He'll get you started." She walks away without another word, taking with her the papers we just went through.

     I stand up unsurely, glancing around the room.

     Dres returns, stopping when he sees me there as if he expected me to leave. He does the staring thing again. I rake my hand through my hair nervously. "Come with me," he says finally before turning around and walking back out.

     I'm quick to follow him, not trying to screw up on my first day or piss Dres off more than I clearly already have. He's scary, terrifyingly hot actually, which, I think, is even worse. It's a conflicting feeling to wrap your brain around that I both want to cower from him and get up close in his space.

     He stops short and I have to side step him to prevent myself from ramming into his back. We're in an industrial-sized kitchen, although you wouldn't know it since most of the appliances are draped in sheets.

     "You can help her with the painting," he says picking up a can of white paint, and a paintbrush.

     He holds the brush out to me. I take it from him going for the can next. We make the exchange but not before my sweaty fingers make a show of themselves on his. He seems virtually unaffected, waltzing off without another word. I remain rooted to my spot, staring at where he once was, breathing heavily. I decide to not make this a thing. I can't risk jeopardizing the first prospect of a job I have. I exist around lots of hot people without a problem. So why does it suddenly feel like I have a huge problem?