"Horseradish," she said firmly. "And a little mayo on the other side.
I'll wrap the pickle separately, so it won't get soggy."
"Pickles are supposed to be soggy." He was grinning again.
"The sandwich, Patrick."
"Ah." He was altogether pleased with himself. She made the sandwich, mumbling like a junior Ann, and at the last moment included an extra pickle.
"There," she said. As he gave her a five dollar bill, the edge of his palm brushed her fingers. She put the change on the counter between them, not wanting to touch him again; she was still feeling his hand, pleasantly hard against hers, and she wanted to go on enjoying it. "Off you go," she said.
"Gotta put the paint on the wall. That's what Wilson says." He took the bag and the change. "Maybe I'll see you and Amber at the Depresso." Damn him.
"Maybe." She gave him her best Mona Lisa smile and flicked some hair back over her shoulder. A horn honked.
"Speaking of Wilson . . . " he said. "Thanks."
He's cute, she thought. Her hand was still warm where he had touched her. Like the ocean, his eyes darkened, the deeper she looked.
The next morning, Patrick was back. "Good sandwich," he said. He meant it, and she felt a warm stirring. God, not a blush!