#retail worker reader

The man doesn’t even blink. He’s half turned, murmuring something to a shorter guy in a suit who’s holding his coffee. His presence alone feels… expensive. The kind of man who never has to wait for anything.

“I said,” you repeat, louder now, “the line’s back there. Behind the woman with the pink stroller.”

The shorter guy stares at you like you just declared war. “You—”

But the tall one lifts a hand and silences him. Slowly, his gaze drifts to you, cold blue eyes cutting through the noise of the store. The kind of eyes that could freeze a man mid-breath.

“Excuse me?” he says, voice low and smooth.

“Yeah, excuse you,” you fire back before your self-preservation instincts can intervene. “We’ve got people waiting. You can’t just waltz up and—what? Think you’re special?”

The air tightens. His men exchange looks. You notice the small glint under one of their jackets—metal, tucked away but unmistakable. Your stomach dips.

Still, you cross your arms and stand firm. Retail has stripped you of many things—patience, will to live—but not your pride.

The man’s head tilts, slow, assessing. “Do you know who I am?”

You arch a brow. “Do you know where the line is?”

A small silence follows. Then—he laughs. Quiet at first, then full-bodied, rich. It’s the kind of laugh that draws stares from everyone around because they can’t tell if it’s safe to laugh too.

He leans forward slightly, gloved hands resting on the counter. “You’ve got some nerve, doll.”

“Thanks,” you say dryly. “Now either pay for your coffee or let the people who’ve been waiting do it.”

He studies you like you’re a puzzle he suddenly wants to solve. There’s a scar along his jaw, hair pulled back neatly at the nape of his neck, suit tailored within an inch of its life. Everything about him screams power. Control. Dangerous charm.

He reaches into his coat, pulls out his wallet, and slides a few crisp hundreds across the counter. “For the people behind me,” he says. “And for the attitude.”

Your jaw nearly hits the register. “That’s… unnecessary.”

“That’s gratitude.” His smile flickers, wolfish. “You called me out. Nobody does that anymore.”

You hesitate before handing him his receipt. “Maybe they should.”

He grins wider, eyes sparking with interest. “Maybe they should,” he echoes, voice low enough to make your pulse stutter. Then he adds, “Name’s Bucky.”

“Good for you.”

He chuckles again, pushing away from the counter, the scent of his cologne lingering in his wake—leather and winter air. “What’s yours?”

You blink. “Why?”

“So I can make sure no one gives you trouble for talking to me like that.”

You smirk. “I’ve survived Black Friday. I’ll be fine.”

He laughs again—god, that laugh—and nods once before heading for the door, his men flanking him. But before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder.

There’s something in that look—sharp, curious, almost hungry.

You think that’s the end of it. You really do.

Until the next morning.

You walk in for your shift and nearly trip over the massive bouquet sitting on the counter. Roses, lilies, something foreign that smells like expensive heaven. There’s a card tucked into the stems, scrawled in neat ink:

For the only person who’s told me “no” in years. — B

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. The manager teases you for having a secret admirer, but you shove the card into your apron before anyone else can read it.

By lunchtime, you’ve almost forgotten about it—until you step outside for your break and find him leaning against a black car at the curb.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask, halfway between annoyed and flustered.

“Just making sure you got the flowers.”

“I did.”

He smiles, slow. “Good. Thought I might’ve scared you off yesterday.”

“Please. You think that was scary? I’ve had people throw expired coupons at my face.”

That earns a full grin. “I like you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

He smirks. “Then what should I call you?”

“How about customer service representative?”

“Doesn’t really roll off the tongue.”

“You’ll live.”

He laughs again, and somehow it softens him. The sharp suit and the hard eyes don’t seem quite so dangerous when he’s smiling like that.

“Coffee,” he says suddenly. “Let me buy you one. Off the clock, of course. So you don’t have to yell at me about lines.”

You should say no. You know you should say no.

But there’s something about him—this mix of danger and boyish charm—that makes it hard to resist.

You narrow your eyes. “If you cut in line again, I’m walking out.”

“Deal.” He extends his hand, and when you take it, his grip is firm but careful. Warm. “I’ll behave. Promise.”

“You don’t look like the kind of guy who keeps promises.”

He smirks. “Then I guess you’ll have to find out.”

Later that night, when you replay the whole encounter, you finally Google his name.

The search results make your stomach flip. James Buchanan Barnes. Alleged head of the Brooklyn Syndicate. Wanted in connection to half the city’s black-market operations.

You stare at the screen, stunned, and then laugh into your hands because—of course. Of course the first man to make your heart stutter in years turns out to be a literal mob boss.

The next day, he’s back again—standing in your line this time, hands in his pockets, smirk firmly in place.

“See?” he says when it’s finally his turn. “Didn’t cut.”

You bite your lip to hide a smile. “Gold star.”

He leans closer. “What do I get if I earn two?”

You glance at the line behind him, heart hammering, voice steady. “We’ll see if you can behave that long.”

His grin is slow, dangerous, delighted. “Challenge accepted, doll.”