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laughed and gave her a meaningful wink. “True story.”
    “Why?”
    “Why what?” I was unsure of what she was asking.
    “Why are you so cocky?”
    I opened my mouth, ready to shoot back a response. But I stopped and closed it. This was the third time in the last ten minutes that she had caught me off guard.
    Before I could respond, she spoke again. “Is this the real you?”
    I stared at her, taken aback by her no-bullshit line of questions. For the brief moment before I regained my composure, I felt naked and exposed—and not in the way I was used to being naked and exposed.
    “Of course this is me,” I finally said. “What you see is what you get.”
    “Hmm, okay.” She seemed unimpressed by my response.
    “Hey, can I ask you something?” I deliberately changed the subject. I did not like where the conversation was heading.
    “Okay…sure.” She looked at me hesitantly. I noticed that she had sat back down on the barstool, and I felt relieved that she wasn’t making any moves to leave.
    “Are you an artist?” I asked, gesturing to the nearly dried paint on her hair.
    She looked taken aback by my question, and I felt a sense of triumph that she was the one who was now caught off guard. Oh, how the tides have turned , I thought with amusement.
    I noticed a rosy-peach hue color her face, making her look strikingly beautiful, even with her disheveled paint-covered hair and tattered t-shirt. I had a strong urge to brush my hand against her cheek and push back the few loose strands of paint-speckled hair behind her ear.
    “Oh, umm. I do some ceramics, but yeah, that ”—she motioned up towards hair—“has nothing to do with art. That was me accidentally splashing a little paint on myself right before I got locked out of my apartment,” she admitted sheepishly.
    “Just a little paint?” I teased.
    Her face flushed brighter. “Okay, so it was the entire tray of paint,” she laughed. “I know I look like a hot mess.”
    “Yes, definitely a hot mess,” I repeated with a wide grin.
    She laughed again and shook her head. “You’re such a flirt.”
    “True story,” I agreed. “And you’re kind of feisty.”
    “True story,” she agreed with a smile.
    Ahh yeah. She’s flirting back , I thought. Maybe there’ll be a Sunday fuck session after all.
    Just as I was about to ask her if she wanted to head up and chill in my apartment, her stomach gave a loud growl.
    “Oh, sorry, that was me.” She shifted uncomfortably as she looked away from my gaze.
    “No need to apologize. Are you hungry?” I wasn’t sure why, but I was concerned for her and felt a protective need to take care of her.
    “A little, but it’s fine,” she said quickly.
    “When was the last time you had something to eat?”
    I watched her think about my question. “Um, well I was painting for most of the afternoon, so I guess the last thing I ate was that bowl of cereal during the late morning.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah, I guess I lost track of time and didn’t realize it.”
    “Well, we’ll need to fix that. What do you want to eat?”
    She looked at me quizzically.
    “Don’t worry. That was not an attempt to try to hit on you,” I teased. “We can call in an order somewhere while we wait for Roger.”
    “Shouldn’t you be working?” I could hear the skepticism in her voice.
    “It’s Sunday. It’s usually a slow night. Plus, I’m the boss. I can get someone else to fill in,” I reassured her. I had opened Damian’s less than a year ago, and it was my baby. It was one of the few things I cared about. So I’d never put my need for ass before my bar obligations before. But today, I decided to make an exception for Alexis. Because for some reason, I had a feeling there was something more than just ass I wanted from her.
    “I’m not that hungry,” she said unconvincingly.
    “Oh, come on. We both know that’s not true.”
    As if in agreement, her stomach rumbled again.
    I laughed. “We’re ordering food. My