But I can’t pretend that my respect for vehicular safety is the only reason I’m reluctant to give in to our physical connection. The truth is, I have enough responsibilities already without having to manage another person’s feelings. And while Nick may act all quiet and mysterious, the sad male indie rock playlists I’ve had to listen to let me know the truth. Somewhere underneath that gruff exterior, Nick Velez has feelings, and I sure don’t want him spraying any of them in my general direction.

I pop behind the counter to crank up the music, then put the chairs up on the tables. As I grab the broom to sweep up the empty sugar packets and napkins that cover the floor, “Steal Away” starts playing.

“Take me away, Robbie Dupree,” I whisper to myself as I sweep the floor with a little more bravado than usual. The rain is pouring down outside and I spent my day helping my brother move into a hellhole and I didn’t visit my dad tonight which makes me possibly the worst daughter in the world, but for now, it’s just me and the smooth, smooth music. I shake my shoulders, let my hips wiggle, do a slight body roll. When the song gets to its breakdown, I belt the lyrics into the broom handle/microphone and spin around to see Nick standing three feet away from me, arms crossed.

I shriek and throw the broom at him.

He catches it, his eyes wide. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t know you were there,” I shout. “Way to sneak up on me.”

“I work here,” he says, starting to sweep where I left off. “In case you forgot.”

Lightning flashes and the power flickers. “Well, so do I, and I’m sweeping.” I grab the broom out of his hands, my fingers brushing against his.

“You are . . . tense today,” Nick says, leaning against the counter and shoving his hands in his pockets.

My shoulders are near my ears as the power flickers again. A crack of thunder booms as I flash him my trademark Chloe Sanderson smile, the one that charms customers and elderly people. “I have a lot going on.”

“Want to . . . talk about it?” Nick’s voice is tentative, and for good reason. We don’t normally “talk about” anything, unless we’re talking about how much the other person’s musical selections annoy us. Sure, I tell him when I have to leave to take care of my dad . . . but the other stuff? Feelings? Personal lives? The movie? It’s all off limits. But then again, the two of us are usually surrounded by people, and it’s hard to have a serious conversation when Gary’s around.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, my tone as brisk as my efficient broom sweeps. “Everything’s gravy.”

“Gravy?” Nick says from behind me, sounding disgusted. “Is that supposed to be good?”

“Duh,” I say. “Everyone loves gravy.”

“Well, they wouldn’t love it if everything was gravy. I can tell you that much for free,” Nick mutters.