Entice (Hearts of Stone #2)

by Veronica Larsen

  "Do you mind?" I yank the screen down, stopping short of slamming it closed. I can't believe his nerve. It doesn't help that my glare meets the back of his head as he's already walking away and around to the other side of the counter.

  But I guess he's not done with me because he turns to add, "No one has time to read a resume that long."

  The short laugh I let out is as humorless as the fake smile that accompanies it by default. "Okay, what is your problem?"

  "My problem?" He's across from me again. This time behind the drink machine. The way his hazel eyes scan my face, with a sliver of amusement, reveals he knows exactly what I'm talking about.

  "The massive stick you have lodged up your ass." I make a general gesture in his direction. "Ring a bell?"

  He folds his arms over the counter and tilts his head the way a person does when they genuinely don't understand a question.

  "Oh, come on. Your customer service skills? They suck."

  "Do they?" he asks, straightening up again to fill two glasses with soda. "I don't consider them skills, really."

  He heads off to bring the drinks to a nearby table. I watch carefully. The customers don't appear put-off with his indifferent mannerisms. They give him a smile and mumble what I think is 'thanks,' though I can't hear it.

  Owen doesn't look at me when he returns to his spot. Even though I'm sure he knows that I'm watching him through narrowed eyes.

  "You know," I say, "I thought you were being an asshole by mistake, but maybe it's entirely on purpose."

  His head hangs down, eyes on the glass he's drying with a towel. "I don't do anything by mistake."

  A beat.

  I don't have a comeback and am breathing a little harder than I was a few seconds ago. To say I'm annoyed is an understatement. The universe is fucking with me, subjecting me to psychological warfare. It wants me to become a ridiculous news story that goes viral on social media: Female Attorney Beats in Man's Head with Resume Bearing Laptop at Local Diner.

  I get up and pay my bill without saying another word. Owen runs my card through the machine and I'm not even sure if he looks at me because my gaze burns a hole into the back of the cash register. The all too recent memory of the last time a man got under my skin weaves, tauntingly, like a bobble head in the forefront of my mind. That situation didn't end well, and I've reached my quota for how many assholes I can handle without setting the feminist movement back a few notches with a PMS-cidal rampage.

  Crossing through the front door, I glance back without reason and find Owen's sights darting up from behind me.

  You've got to be kidding me. This motherfucker was staring at my ass.

  Distracted, I nearly trip over the door's threshold. I quickly recover, but not soon enough to soothe my ego, which gives me a subsequent kick in the throat.

  Great. There goes my graceful exit. I wish I would've fallen all the way and cracked my face on the pavement. At least then he couldn't have considered it funny.

  I grip the laptop bag's strap closer to my chest and continue walking, the morning air distinctly cool against my unusually warm face.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  One second I'm sleeping, the next I'm bolting upright and panicked by the brightness of the room.

  I didn't turn on my alarm and now I'm late.

  Straightening up, I push away the gray bedcover from my body. Wait. I don't own a gray comforter. This depressing color is my sister's version of sophistication. I'm in Lex's guest room. And I'm not late because I don't have anywhere to be.

  Stomach tightening, I fall back onto the bed and stare at the crack in Lex's ceiling. And as I lie there, the panic that jarred me awake looms. I can't seem to shake it.

  When I finally head into the living room, Lex is near the front door, slipping on her heels and getting ready to leave for work.

  "Morning," Lex says, with almost sarcastic enthusiasm. I know she's mocking my appearance—which, though I can't see, I imagine resembles that of a creature emerging from a moat.

  Dragging my feet on the ground for dramatic effect, I slink over to the refrigerator, grab a bottle of water, and proceed to chug it down, noisily, while the refrigerated air sooths my bare legs.

  Lex reaches past me to grab the empty carton of beer on the second shelf. "We should probably throw this out. I don't think they magically re-stock."

  I let out half a chortle into my water bottle.

  Buttoning her jacket, she adds, almost as an afterthought, "How's the job search going?"

  "It's going," I say, straightening up. When she fixes me with her hallmark, probing eye, I say, "Updated my resume and put in a few applications yesterday. Should make more leeway today."

  Lex leans back against the edge of the counter, considering me for a moment. She starts to say something, then stops. Then starts again. "Do you need money?"

  "I've got savings."

  Her expression tells me she's battling the urge to ask me how much. I wouldn't mind telling her, but I know she wouldn't be asking to make small talk. She'd ask because she wants to do the math in her head, she wants to lay out a plan for me of how long I can live on my savings.

  My sister's resisting the urge to offer to solve my problems because she doesn't know how badly I want her to, how much I can't bring myself to ask. But our relationship has gotten so much better since she stopped treating me like a problem that needs fixing.

  Lex and I haven't always gotten along. Over the last few years, though, we've managed to build a friendship of sorts, the type of relationship I imagine sisters ought to have. Because before that, Lex wasn't my sister. She was a parent to me. The only parent I've ever had. It took moving to another city for me to convince her I'm not a little girl anymore. I'm still not sure she believes it.

  Before leaving, Lex tells me, not for the first time, that she's here if I need anything. She means money. My sister is pretty well off in that sense, her business doing better than ever. But I couldn't take a cent from her. I already feel indebted to her for paying for everything when we were younger.

  Anyway, what I said is true. I did manage to set some money aside. My bills are paid for this month, but my savings can only afford to cover me for another two more months without a source of income.

  In truth, my real emergency plan is my credit card. I've managed to keep from using it but I could fall back on it if I ran out of all my other funds before landing a new job. I could never tell my sister this, though. She'd get upset if she knew my backup plan was essentially getting into more debt.

  I eat breakfast at the condo, get ready for the day, and settle behind the living room table with the laptop. For hours, I submit application after application. My eyes stinging from staring at the screen, typing in the same information over and over again. Hitting submit dozens of times as the laptop speakers chime with confirmation emails.

  Staring down at the list of my submitted applications fills me with little satisfaction. Because I know there are no guarantees, and I'm not the only person out there looking for a job. Many are likely to be more qualified than I am.

  Every one of the jobs I apply for are in San Francisco, though I come across listings in San Diego as well. I don't bother with those, despite the twinge in my stomach telling me I shouldn't be so quick to dismiss them.

  Staying in San Diego isn't an option I'm willing to entertain. The whole point of moving away was to start a new life. Staying here now would be like accepting defeat. Like moving backward. Failing. And I don't like to fail. Even if I seem to be pretty good at it.

  The highlight of my life to date was getting into Berkeley Law. I packed up what I needed and left all of the heavy shit behind to move to the Bay Area. When I think back to that time in my life, I'm still flooded with how lightweight I felt. The world was new and teeming with possibilities. That was, to me, the beginning of my adult life.

  People looked at me differently then, as though they suspected I was going places, going to be someone. And I felt the same way. I ima
gined a life for myself. A life as a fancy lawyer in a fancy condo overlooking Fisherman's Warf. Maybe there's still a chance I can get that life I envisioned for myself.

  Lunchtime rolls around and I shut the laptop, needing a break. It goes without saying that I don't have any urge to go back to the diner. The whole point of me going there in the first place was to feel better. Instead of a pleasant trip down memory lane, I got a six-foot-something chastising man.

  It occurs to me now that Owen didn't agree with me when I called his father a good man. Not to mention, he referred to him as Lucas instead of 'my father.' Both of which stir in me something I recognize as contempt toward someone you are supposed to love and admire. This doesn't make sense to me. The Lucas I know is a genuinely kind and heartwarming man.

  I distinctly remember feeling as though I gained an ally in that diner. Someone who didn't just lend a willing ear but cared enough to ask questions. Adults never ask kids questions, not the right ones, the ones they don't already know the answers to.

  I settle into my car and push back the guilt the wood trim of the lush interior threatens to pull out of me. There are a few things I need to pick up, like underwear for starters. Going to the mall, knowing it's going to be crowded with holiday shoppers, is oddly exciting. Being around people has a way of energizing me.

  My car radio plays Christmas music, which I was listening to my last few days in San Francisco, trying to will myself into the spirit of the season. It didn't work so much then, but I wasn't in need of cheering up as badly as I am now.

  As I head south toward Fashion Valley mall, the music seems like the antidote to the heaviness brewing in the pit of my stomach, bringing a comfortable warmth over me, making me feel light though nothing has changed about my situation. The anesthetic effects of Christmas music. It's too upbeat and over-the-top until the moment it's not. Until the moment you believe it.

  I pass the exit for the mall and take the one to Scripps Mercy, instead. When someone you know is hospitalized, isn't the proper thing to do to pay him or her a visit?

  Parking is a pain in the ass, but fifteen minutes later, the nurse is asking me for Lucas' full name after I requested his room number.

  I hear myself say, "Grant. Lucas Grant."

  How do I know that? No clue, but I'm right. As I lean back on the elevator wall, watching the lighted numbers tick past, I try to decide when I first came to learn Lucas' last name. Maybe he mentioned it at some point and I filed it away in my brain cabinet?

  Yeah, that's possible.

  But then, why does the word tug at something else in the back of my mind?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lucas Grant sits up in bed wearing a light gray hospital gown. He doesn't see me walking in, his attention fixed on the newspaper in his hands.

  He looks a bit different from the last time I saw him. Thinner and a bit worn. The hard lines and coarseness of his features seem to bring a tense seriousness to his face that anyone who didn't know him might find intimidating. But I know that when he smiles, all of his edges fall away.

  "Good God," he blurts out when he finally notices me beside him. "Are you trying to give me another heart attack? I never thought I'd see you here."

  Smiling, I take the seat beside him. "Had to see if it was true. Sounded like you were playing hooky and skipping work."

  His laugh is a deep, hoarse cackle.

  "I got you this," I say, handing him the card I bought from the gift shop on the first floor.

  "That's very kind of you. Thank you. Your hair is different, again. Blonde. I think last time it was red?"

  God, that was over two years ago. Has it really been that long? I pull on my ends absentmindedly. I'm flattered he remembers.

  "It was," I say. "Anyway, how are you? How long will you be in here?"

  He straightens up, as though needing to prove to me that he's fine. "Discharging tomorrow, just waiting on some test results."

  "That's good news. Are you going back to the diner, or taking it easy for now?"

  "I won't be going back for a while. My daughter insists I move in with her—"

  "And I'm left figuring out what to do with his place."

  Lucas' gaze moves to the doorway behind me.

  I peer over my shoulder to see Owen walking into the room; steps hesitant, eyes fixed squarely on me.

  "Emily," he says, surprise evident in his tone.

  Beside me, Lucas juts a finger in the air in a gesture of eureka. "Emily," he says. "It was on the tip of my tongue."

  Something in my chest deflates a few inches at the realization Lucas didn't remember my name. If my face shows my disappointment, no one in the room reacts to it.

  "She's the girl," Lucas says, "that used to come in the diner all the time—"

  Owen's response is quick, cutting his father off. "Yeah. I know."

  Lucas starts laughing at some internal joke. "Oh boy, Owen was obsessed with you when you were kids."

  I fold my lips inward to keep from smiling, but my eyebrows creep up in amusement anyway.

  Lucas goes on, as if unaware of the awkwardness his words create. "You'd think he'd get over his nerves after seeing you all day at school. But whenever you walked into the diner, he'd disappear. Wouldn't come out of the kitchen if you were around. Finally, I figured out he didn't want you seeing him in his apron. Like he had a chance, anyway. Right?" He slaps my arm playfully. "Owen, do you remember that?"

  I expect Owen to seem embarrassed, but he's visibly impatient, instead. He holds up a questioning hand that asks, 'why are we even talking about this?'

  "Just bringing you the clothes you asked for, for your discharge." He sets a plastic bag on the bedside table then looks at me.

  I'm caught in the shocking afterglow of an embarrassing realization. Owen and I went to school together. I guess I should've assumed this. If he worked at the diner, reason suggests he lived close by and attended the nearest high school. Mine. Yet, I can't seem to muster up a single memory of him at school. Not surprising, I guess. It's not as if I could possibly know every single one of the fifteen hundred plus students I went to school with. There were four or five hundred people in my graduating class alone. Not to mention, I was one of the mean girls back then. Not caring about anyone outside of my circle of friends.

  I stare back at Owen, not immediately registering there may be a subtle hint behind the silence that fell over us. Realizing it, I get to my feet. "Okay, so…I'll get going."

  "No, you're fine," Owen says. "I've got to go, anyway."

  We share another lingering look where, perhaps, we both consider what to say to get the other to stay. But before either one of us can speak again, a short woman with braided black hair strides into the room. A nurse. She announces in an overly sweet tone that she needs us to clear out for a few minutes.

  That settles the matter; neither Owen nor I can stay. We say our goodbyes to Lucas, both quick and surprisingly impersonal. I'm battling more than a slight sting to find that Lucas didn't even remember my name.

  As it turns out, I spent my adolescence putting too much stock on innocuous interactions with a complete stranger whose job was to humor me with conversation and remember my face enough to greet me as an old friend when I walked in. Business. That's all it ever was. Even while I stupidly thought this man was a significant part of my life at the time.

  Owen and I reach the door at the same time. He falls back a step so I can take the lead. But in one brief instant of near contact, he places a hand, almost automatically, on the small of my back.

  All of my senses hone in on this simple gesture, his touch warming my skin through the fabric and pulling my pulse to that very spot. Just as soon as he does it, he pulls his hand back.

  We walk down the hall, side-by-side. "It was nice of you to come," he says. "Thank you."

  "It was nothing, really. I was in the neighborhood."

  Chancing a glimpse in his direction, I consider how he seems less uptight today. Just yesterday, at the diner, e
very inch of his posture emanated a bad mood, a silent warning to stay away.

  Now, outside the diner, he seems less threatening. Not exactly friendly or laid back, but not completely unapproachable. I wonder if he's overcompensating for what his father just revealed to me.

  "So…what was that about back there?" I ask.

  "Not sure what you're talking about." There's the slightest hint of sarcasm there in his tone.

  "Oh, you know," I say, letting my words inflate with egotism. "You were obsessed with me, apparently."

  "Allegedly," he corrects. "You're supposed to say allegedly."

  I don't immediately catch his meaning but then remember he read my resume over my shoulder yesterday and knows I'm an attorney.

  "Hang on, was that—" I blink a few times, feigning disorientation "—was that a joke? And here I thought the giant stick up your ass interfered with humor reception."

  "No. I get pretty good service."

  I almost laugh and he nearly cracks a smile, and though we both resist the urge to show our amusement, he seems to take it further. I get an odd sense of him reeling himself inward, reminding himself of something.

  A strange beat of silence passes. Followed by another, and then another, as we take the last few steps to reach the elevators doors.

  "You don't have to be embarrassed," I say playfully, trying to ease the sudden tension.

  "Do I look embarrassed?"

  My body goes still as he leans toward me, reaching past my side to press the call button. The subtle scent of his cologne takes me by surprise. It's crisp and clean.

  He straightens again, sliding his hands into his pockets and watching me, waiting for my response.

  "I imagine it must sting," I muse. "I wouldn't blame you if you're a little embarrassed."

  Owen eyes my lips for a beat before answering. "I'm sorry? Am I supposed to enjoy talking about you as much as you enjoy talking about yourself?"

  I let out a low whistle. "Wow, you're really holding a grudge, aren't you?" The elevator chimes and the doors open in front of us. "Why is that? Got burn marks on your palms from beating off to me every night?"