The fluorescent lights of Dunnes Stores buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the chaos of a late Friday afternoon. Shoppers darted through the aisles like ants, their trolleys rattling with the urgency of weekend plans. Patrick, a lanky 32-year-old with a mop of unruly brown hair and a perpetually furrowed brow, stood in the middle of the pasta aisle, looking as lost as a child in a haunted house. His shopping list—scrawled on the back of a crumpled receipt—was clutched in one hand, while the other hovered uselessly over a shelf of sauces he didn’t understand. Marinara? Arrabbiata? What the hell was the difference? He was hosting a last-minute dinner party for colleagues he barely liked, and the pressure to not poison them was mounting.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for a jar of something red and presumably Italian. His fingers, slick with nervous sweat, betrayed him. The jar slipped, plummeted, and shattered on the tiled floor with a spectacular crash, splattering sauce across his worn sneakers like a crime scene.
“Great. Just great,” Patrick groaned, crouching to inspect the mess, his face flushing with embarrassment as nearby shoppers shot him judgmental glares. He was debating whether to flee or pretend he hadn’t noticed when a voice—smooth, teasing, and far too confident for a supermarket—cut through the hum of the store.
“Looks like you’ve got a real talent for destruction, mate. Planning to redecorate the whole aisle, or just this bit?”
Patrick’s head snapped up, and his breath caught. Standing over him was a young man who could’ve walked straight off the cover of a fitness magazine. Dark, tousled hair fell into piercing hazel eyes, and a smirk played on full lips that seemed to know exactly how to unnerve someone. His Dunnes Stores uniform—a green polo and black trousers—should’ve looked mundane, but it clung to his broad shoulders and lean frame in a way that was borderline obscene. The name tag pinned to his chest read “David.”
“Uh, I—I didn’t mean to,” Patrick stammered, scrambling to his feet, only to nearly slip in the sauce. He caught himself on the shelf, feeling like an absolute idiot. “I’m just... not great at this.”
David raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, the motion pulling the fabric of his shirt even tighter across his chest. “No kidding. What’s the plan here? Impress someone with a five-star meal, or just blow up the kitchen trying?”
Patrick let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something like that. I’ve got people coming over, and I don’t even know where to start. I thought pasta would be easy, but apparently, I can’t even handle a jar.”
David’s smirk widened, and he took a step closer, his gaze flicking over Patrick with an intensity that made the older man’s stomach flip. “Lucky for you, I’m basically a superhero in a polyester uniform. Let’s get this cleaned up before you cause a full-on disaster. Then I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Before Patrick could protest, David was already grabbing a broom from a nearby cart, moving with an effortless swagger that made even sweeping look seductive. Patrick stood there, awkward and transfixed, as David cleared the mess with quick, precise movements.
“You don’t have to do that,” Patrick mumbled, though he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way David’s muscles flexed with each sweep. “I mean, I made the mess.”
David glanced up, catching Patrick staring, and his smirk turned downright wicked. “Oh, I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. Besides, you look like you need all the help you can get. What’s your name, disaster boy?”
“Patrick,” he replied, his voice a little too high. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “And I’m not usually this hopeless, I swear.”
“Could’ve fooled me, Patrick,” David said, dragging out the name like it was something delicious. He straightened up, resting the broom against the shelf, and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Come on, let’s grab you a replacement before you start a war with the canned goods next. I’ve got a stash in the back.”
Patrick blinked. “The back?”
David’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Stockroom. Exclusive access. Consider yourself VIP for the next five minutes. Follow me.”
There was no room for argument in his tone—it was a command, delivered with the kind of casual authority that made Patrick’s pulse quicken. He nodded dumbly, trailing after David as the younger man led him through a maze of aisles and past a “Staff Only” sign. The stockroom was dimly lit, smelling of cardboard and stale coffee, shelves stacked high with boxes and cans. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the noise of the store, and suddenly the air felt heavier, charged with something Patrick couldn’t quite name.
David turned, holding a jar of marinara sauce like it was a trophy, and leaned against a shelf, blocking Patrick’s path. “Here’s your weapon of mass seduction,” he said, twirling the jar in his hand. “Think you can handle it, or should I hold onto it for safekeeping?”
Patrick swallowed hard, his back brushing against a shelf of canned beans as he tried to keep some distance between them. But David’s presence was overwhelming—his height, his scent, the way his eyes seemed to pin Patrick in place. “I, uh, I think I’ve got it,” he managed, reaching for the jar, only for David to pull it just out of reach.
“Not so fast,” David said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. “I don’t just hand out gourmet goods to anyone. You’ve gotta earn it. Tell me, Patrick, who’re you cooking for? Hot date? Or just trying to look like you’ve got your life together?”
Patrick’s face burned. “No date. Just... colleagues. I’m trying not to look like a complete idiot in front of them.”
David chuckled, stepping closer, so close that Patrick could feel the heat radiating off him. “Too late for that, mate. But don’t worry—I’ve got a soft spot for hopeless cases. Stick with me, and I’ll make sure you don’t burn the place down. Might even throw in a few... private lessons.” His gaze dropped to Patrick’s lips for a split second before flicking back up, daring him to react.
Patrick’s heart was hammering so hard he was sure David could hear it. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was a shaky, “Lessons?”
David’s grin was pure sin. “Yeah. I’m very hands-on. Think you can keep up?”
Their eyes locked, and the world seemed to shrink to the cramped, dimly lit space between them. Patrick felt like he was drowning in that gaze, caught between wanting to bolt and wanting to lean in. David didn’t move, didn’t push, but the weight of his presence was enough to make Patrick’s knees weak.
Finally, David broke the silence, his voice a husky whisper. “Don’t drop this one, yeah? I’d hate to have to rescue you twice in one day... unless you’re into that sort of thing.”
He pressed the jar into Patrick’s trembling hands, his fingers brushing against Patrick’s just long enough to send a jolt through him. Then, with a final, knowing smirk, David stepped back, leaving Patrick reeling against the shelf, his mind a tangled mess of heat and confusion.
As David turned to head back to the store, Patrick knew one thing for certain: dinner was the last thing on his mind now.
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