“Washing dishes? It couldn’t have changed that much.” She walked around the bar, following him to the kitchen.

Humid air greeted her, and the small space felt almost as familiar as a movie set. The double sink on the left looked normal, piled high with pint glasses. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the electronic panel on the dishwasher. With its flashing lights, knobs, and levers, it resembled the controls on a rocket ship. “What the hell?”

“It’s been a while.” He chuckled. “Some things do change.”

John’s grin was just a touch smartass, and she liked him more for it. She felt the same uptick in her pulse as she had when his breath had ghosted her ear. How long has it been since that happened?

She couldn’t remember, and for a moment, she was grateful to her over-the-limit credit card. Thankfully, he handed her a clean apron from the hook on the wall. She needed something to do with her hands other than wring them like a nineteenth-century heroine.

“All right, Yoda me on all this stuff.”

“Washing dishes, you will be learning.”

Anna followed him to the sink.

#

JOHN SHOULD HAVE BEEN focused on the patron repeating his order, but he glanced through the clear panel of the swinging door to the kitchen instead. He grinned. Anna tucked stray strands of her hair that had escaped under her cap. Even muffled by the cacophony at the bar and the sound of the industrial dishwasher, he heard her creative swearing at the electronic panel.

John couldn’t believe Anna Kovács was washing dishes in the back kitchen. He had thought her name was familiar when he ran her credit card, but after she mentioned her profession, he’d realized she had directed one of his favorite movies.

Initially, he had just noticed her grimace while reading the script. He knew the feeling. He had read plenty of terrible scripts in his day. She’d stood out, sitting alone at the end of the bar, nursing two beers, and ignoring the noise around her.

“Hey, can I get another drink?”

Why couldn’t she pay for her beer? She had made an award-winning film and directed two movies for Rialto Brothers.

“Hey, buddy.”

John missed the days before this place had been discovered by every influencer needing some Hollywood kitsch for their selfie. He didn’t have time to daydream about Anna’s prospects or lack thereof. He definitely didn’t have time for her plush red lips or her chestnut hair he wished was down around her shoulders.

“Buddy.”

I’m not your buddy. John grabbed a beer for the guy. It was going to be a long afternoon.