Poker Face: A Small Town Romance (The Beaufort Poker Club Book 1)

by Maggie Gates

  As I crossed the bridge from Morehead City to Radio Island, I rolled my windows down and let the smell of the salty air fill my senses. There was nothing quite like living on the coast. Traffic came to a crawl as soon as I got into Morehead. I cranked up the radio and sat back in the seat of my Jeep Wrangler, thankful that I had put the top down for the drive from the airport in Raleigh to Beaufort.

  My phone lit up and I grabbed it out of the cupholder. Ignoring a text from he-who-must-not-be-named, I swiped across the screen and pressed it to my ear. “Hey, Chase. I just got back in town. I’m coming through Morehead now.”

  There was an unusual pause before Chase spoke up, “Mads, have you passed the hospital yet?”

  My brows furrowed, “No, not yet. Why? Mel need lunch or something?”

  “Not Melissa,” Chase sighed, “Steve’s there with Heather again. It’s, uh, it’s not looking good, Mad.” He cleared his throat and switched from sounding like a concerned friend to a police officer. “She doesn’t have much time. You should probably head over there and say goodbye.”

  Car horns blared as I whipped my Jeep around a median and took a shortcut to Carteret Presbyterian Hospital.

  “Did you just run a red light?” Chase chirped in my ear.

  “It was yellow.”

  “Don’t be getting yourself killed on the way over there. Stop speeding.”

  “I’m not speeding.”

  “Liar. Stop speeding.”

  “I was not speeding,” I said as I eased off the accelerator. “I was driving with purpose.”

  I heard Chase groan on the line, “You just admitted to speeding, Mads. Please don’t ever get arrested because you’ll incriminate yourself in three seconds flat.”

  “Good thing I’ve got an in with two cops in the department!” I sing-songed. I pulled into the emergency entrance of the hospital and threw my Jeep into park. “I’m here. You heading over?”

  “I’m covering for Steve down at the precinct, but I’ll be down as soon as I get off.”

  My sandals hit the pavement and I slammed the door shut. “Thanks for giving me a call.”

  “Anytime, Mad Dog. I gotta go. Give Heather a hug for me.”

  “I will.” I hung up, my finger lingering just a second over the unread text message that was taunting me. I could open it. I could read it. He’d never know. I could read it and then delete it and it would be like it never happened. I chickened out and shoved my phone in my pocket and stormed through the doors of the emergency department. I rested my palms on the front desk until a nurse caught a glimpse of me and slid the glass window back.

  “I need to see Melissa Jacobsen. Can you let her know that Maddie Dorsey is here?”

  The lady gave me a critical look before rolling her eyes and disappearing through a door. I paced in front of the emergency room doors before finally, Melissa came into the waiting room and gave me a tired smile. “Hey.”

  Skipping the pleasantries, I asked, “Be straight with me, Mel. How bad is it?”

  Mel cut her eyes to the other people waiting in the lobby. She lowered her voice and said, “You know I can’t give you that information.”

  “Melissa Renee Jacobsen, I just flew clear across the country, I’m exhausted, and I need to know.”

  She fingered her ID badge and looked at the ground. “She caught some kind of infection. The chemo isn’t doing her much good this time around. It’s just making her immune system turn to crap.” She paused while a group of EMTs passed by before adding on, “It’ll be a miracle if she makes it through the night.”

  Fuck. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Is—is she conscious?”

  “She was the last time I went up there. Steve hasn’t left her side. Everyone else has stopped by. Chase is gonna try and come by again when he gets off duty.” Mel cocked her head toward the elevators. “East wing, room 312.”

  I gave her arm a squeeze, “Thanks Mel.”

  “Hey,” Melissa called as I stabbed the arrow button to the elevator. “You never told me if you won.”

  I pasted on a grin and tossed my hair over my shoulder, “You know I had to sign an NDA. I can’t tell you until it airs!”

  Melissa rolled her eyes. “What are we gonna be drinking in a month when it airs?”

  “Tell Bridget to have a bottle of Macallan twelve on hand.”

  Her eyes widened, “You’re serious?” I grinned like the Cheshire cat as she bolted over and threw her arms around me, “Oh, I knew you could do it! How do you feel, big shot?”

  I sighed. Honestly, it felt like I could breathe a little easier. The championship title was cool, but the prize money was going to go a long way. “Pretty damn good,” I grinned.

  Melissa glanced at her watch, “I gotta go. Tell Steve I’ll be up to see them when I get a break.”

  ✽✽✽

  “Someone told me there was a party in here,” I joked as I tiptoed into Heather’s hospital room.

  Steve looked up from his seat beside the bed and offered a weak smile, “Hey, Mad Dog.”

  “You look like hell.”

  He turned his eyes back to Heather. She laid completely still, swallowed by the hospital gown that was four sizes too big for her emaciated frame. Her chest barely rose, but the lines on the monitor off to the side seemed unconcerned. “I’m in it,” he admitted quietly. His rumpled polo looked like he had slept in it. His brown hair was mussed—probably from constantly dragging his fingers through it. He looked much older than his thirty years.

  I blinked back the tears that welled up in my eyes and grinned as I walked further in. After all, I was the life of the party. I wasn’t the crying shoulder. I was the one who could turn anything into a good time. I was YOLOs and peace signs and daredevil antics. I sat in the empty chair beside Steve and placed my hand on Heather’s blanket-covered knee.

  “She can hear you,” Steve mumbled.

  I nodded and let out a tremored breath. “Hey, Heather. It’s Maddie. I, uh, I just got back from California. Thanks… Thanks for texting me before the competition.” A tear slid down my cheek and I quickly wiped it away. I laughed it off and shook my head. “I won.”

  Heather’s lips curled up around the oxygen tube that was threaded into her mouth. Steve nearly jumped when her hand listlessly squeezed his. He grabbed a small white board from the rolling table and uncapped a dry erase marker. He wedged the marker into Heather’s fingers and laid the white board on her stomach.

  Her movements were pained. Heather’s grip on the marker made it seem like it weighed a thousand pounds. Finally, her hand stilled and she closed her eyes again. Steve took the marker back and handed me the white board. I cocked my head and studied the picture. “Heather, you know I’m shit at pictionary,” I laughed reluctantly. It looked kind of like a rocket. A rocket with two—“Oh my God. You drew a dick!” I couldn’t help but keel over with laughter.

  Steve cracked a smile and shook his head. “A dick and a question mark?”

  Heather gave us a thumbs up.

  “The guy Mad met in California?” Steve guessed.

  She grimaced as she nodded carefully.

  I sighed and ran a hand back through my hair before faking a smile and saying, “Heather, you’re not going to believe this, so settle in, sweet cheeks. Have I got a story for you.”

  ✽✽✽

  I told Heather and Steve everything from meeting Luca in the gym, to him ripping into me during the competition, to having it out with him in my hotel room. By the time I was done, Heather was barely responsive and Steve was looking more and more hollow. I went down to the cafeteria and brought him back a depressing looking chicken salad sandwich and a Coke. I said my goodbyes and hurried out to my Jeep, avoiding the ER and Melissa entirely. When I sunk into the driver’s seat I allowed myself to cry for a solid two minutes before grabbing a wad of fast food napkins from the glove box and drying my eyes.

  I wasn’t expected back at the restaurant until Tuesday, but I didn’t exactly want to be home ei
ther. Steve and Heather would be at the hospital for God knows how long, Chase was on duty, Melissa was at work, Hannah Jane’s Sundays were always booked with events, and the holiday weekend meant that Kristin was slammed turning over rooms at the inn and Bridget would be working double shifts at the bar.

  I guided my Jeep into the back parking lot at Revanche and ripped the keys out. I was angry and dammit—I was going to take it out on some dough. The upside was that I’d get a head start on my Tuesday production schedule. I held the elastic tie between my teeth as I spun my hair into a blob on top of my head and secured it with the tie. I unlocked the back door and dropped my bag into my locker, trading it for the headwrap I preferred rather than my chef’s hat. I kicked off my sandals and grabbed the spare pair of socks I kept for this exact occasion. I slipped my feet into my orthopedic clogs and grabbed an apron off the hook before stomping down the stairs to my dungeon of sugar and carbs.

  The pastry kitchen at Revanche was in the basement of the three story restaurant. The rooftop dining space was opulent and luxurious with an outdoor fireplace, string lights, and an unmatched view that looked out over the water and the wildlife reserve where wild horses roamed. The second floor was ground level and housed the main dining area, our private event rooms, and the main kitchen. I was perfectly happy being sequestered in my cave of solitude.

  I passed a few of my interns and pastry cooks on my way down. They were used to me popping in at all hours of the day and night even when I was supposed to be off. It was the beginning of dinner service, so final preparations were in full swing to send plate after plate of carefully curated desserts up to happy guests. I opened the door to the walk-in freezer and propped it open with a doorstop. It always took the newbies a little getting used to, but I’d been around the walk-ins for over a decade now. Stepping into a freezer that was ten below didn’t phase me. I checked the stash of shaped croissants and danishes to see what we were low on before sealing the door shut, heading to the walk-in fridge, grabbing a block of dough that had been resting in the chilly air, and piling a few pounds of butter on top. I loaded up my arms and went to work.

  I caressed the yeast dough into a rectangle before smearing on the butter, folding it over three times, and then beating the shit out of it with a rolling pin to thin it out.

  “Heard you were down here,” Scott hollered over the racket I was making. Croissants were hard work, but they were cathartic. Turning a fifty pound block of dough into light, flakey, perfectly laminated pastries was a noble task. The fact that I could take out my anger, rage, and sadness by wielding a rolling pin made it bearable. Everyone knew that if I was the one who was making the croissants, that I was not to be fucked with.

  “Didn’t have anything to do,” I grunted as I hefted the sheet of dough over on itself before adding another layer of butter and stretching it out again. A few more turns and then it would go back into the fridge before being sent through the sheeter. I wiped my hands on my apron and turned to face him. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs?”

  Scott Christensen was the executive chef at the restaurant. He had twenty years of experience to my ten, but still treated me as an equal. “Just came to see how California went. If you’re down here beating the sweet dough like it pissed in your cereal, I’ll take that as a sign that it didn’t go that well.”

  I shook my head and laid the ruler down against a finished sheet of dough and began to cut perfectly identical triangles. “California was fine.”

  “So why are you down here when you have PTO, kid? Other than the fact that you’re a workhorse and don’t know how to take a day off.”

  The smooth motion of the pizza cutter slicing through the dough was calming. My pulse slowed and my voice quieted. “Heather Pelham’s back in the hospital. Doesn’t look good. I said goodbye.”

  Scott’s brow furrowed and he gave me a sympathetic nod. “That—” He shook his head and sighed again, “That sucks, Mad. I’m sorry to hear that.” He glanced at the clock overhead and jerked his thumb back toward the stairs. “I better head back up before Carol loses her shit with the rush, but, uh, I’ll pack something up for you to take to Steve when you’re outta here. ‘Aight?”

  I forced a smile and turned back to my dough. “Thanks, Chef.”

  “Anytime, Chef,” he retorted as he started up the stairs. “Hey, don’t forget about the managers meeting tomorrow. Ten in the morning.”

  I gave him a thumbs up and he disappeared back into his kitchen.

  ✽✽✽

  My arms were aching and my lower back was throbbing, but at least I had worked out some of those pesky emotions. I stayed well after dinner service ended and went back behind my staff to give the kitchen an extra thorough clean. Robert Mullon—the owner of Revanche—and Scott pretty much left me alone. I ran a tight ship and both of them were happy to sit back and watch us make top ten lists, win awards, and rack up soaring sales with my desserts. On top of regular restaurant service, my team supplied breads, pastries, and other a la carte goods to a few local coffee shops and grocers. Our neighbors at the Taylor Creek Inn went through hundreds of our croissants and danishes every day. With Memorial Day officially kicking off the summer tomorrow, wedding season would be in full swing. That meant that most of my time would be devoted to brides and grooms and making cake dreams happen.

  Robert liked to have a managers meeting once a month with me, Scott, and Carol Hong—our front of the house manager. The three of us pretty much ran the place. After thirty years of growing the restaurant, Robert was slowing down and mostly just showed up to sign the paychecks. We were okay with that.

  The headlights of my Jeep flashed across the trees as I drove further inland and circled around the bay. I cut the wheel and bumped down Steve and Heather’s driveway. Their house was dark, but Steve’s Challenger was parked up by the garage. It was a nice car, but since it doubled as his unmarked vehicle, he never parked it in the garage, claiming that in an emergency it would take too long to pull out. I circled around to the side of their property, eased up to park beside the boat ramp, and killed the engine.

  That’s when I saw him.

  Steve was sitting by himself on the end of the dock, still in the clothes he had been wearing at the hospital. These were the moments in life that you realized being the quarterback and the homecoming king didn’t mean shit in the grand scheme of things. Steve and Heather had everything. They were the golden couple that should have fifty more years together. Time is cruel.

  I pulled my suitcase out and shut the door. “Hey, I didn’t think you’d be home tonight. Figured you’d still be at the hospital.” I lifted the brown paper bag that flaunted the Revanche logo. “Scott sent y’all a buncha’ boxes of something that smells like heaven.” His eyes never left the water. The lights from my houseboat reflected off the surface. Our shadows curved and twisted in the glassy blackness as I sat down beside him. “You hungry?”

  Steve stroked the thick stubble on his face and shook his head. Sure, he wasn’t the most talkative person in our little group, but this wasn’t like him.

  “Need something to drink?”

  There was a twitch of his eyebrows. He laid back on the dock with his feet flat on the boards and his knees bent in the air. “Something strong,” he mumbled.

  I pushed off the creaky wood and walked onto the deck of my houseboat, lugging my suitcase over with me. When I came back, I had a bottle of Jack in my hand. I didn’t really want to wash anymore dishes and tonight wasn’t the night for messing with glasses. I sat down beside him again and nudged his knees with my elbow. “Cheers.” I took a swig from the bottle and passed it over.

  Steve pushed up on his elbows, took the bottle from me, and drank a long pull.

  “Wanna talk about it?” I offered quietly when he handed the whiskey back. I took another sip and set it aside. I traded downing the rest of the bottle for mindlessly picking at a loose thread on the hem of my tied off t-shirt that said Momma tried.

  He sat up and hunched
over, resting his forearms on his knees. “How much liquor you got stashed in that boat of yours?”

  I forced a wry smile “That bad, huh?” I made the string worse as I pulled at it, but I didn’t do well with these kinds of conversations. I never knew what to say. I either ran away or I made things awkward—there was no inbetween. “Do they think she’s gonna come home anytime soon?” I asked. Steve choked down his answer, but I looked over and saw the tear sliding down his cheek and disappearing into his beard. “Steve?”

  “She’s already gone, Mad.” He croaked out.

  Silence hung heavy between us. I had known Steve since we were in diapers. Ever since the first day of third grade when Heather Daniels walked in with her Lisa Frank backpack, he had been head over heels for her. Like any couple that fell for each other at a young age, they’d had their fair share of breakups and fights, but those never lasted long. Never lasted long enough for either of them to start seeing anyone else. Eventually Heather Daniels became Heather Pelham and I swear all of Beaufort and half of the Crystal Coast turned out for their wedding. The way Steve looked at her when they said “I do” was the same way he looked at her that August when they met in Mrs. Phillips’s classroom at Beaufort Elementary. It was the same way he was looking at her when I’d seen them at Carteret Presbyterian just a few hours earlier. It was the way he was staring at the water now.

  Grief was a wicked thing to bear. It was the price of having too much love and no one to give it to.

  I had always been just a little jealous of Heather. Not because I wanted Steve for myself—he was like a brother to me. No, it had been written in the stars for the two of them to spend their lives together, but I couldn’t help but be jealous of the way he looked at her. All my life I had wanted someone to look at me that way. The kind of way that you knew when they said, “Til death do us part,” they meant it.

  Steve shoulders sagged like the life had been drained straight from his veins. I picked up the bottle and sucked down a few ounces before handing it over to him. He took it and stared at the glass rim for a moment before setting it aside and closing his eyes. I scooted closer and draped my arm around him and rested my head on the corner of his shoulder. He was fit, but not like Chase. I wrapped my arm around his back and leaned against him like a life-sized teddy bear.