Sinful Temptations (Forbidden Love Series Book 1)

by Kelsey King

  “Of course you can.” She hands me a plastic menu with hooded eyes. I give her a quick smile and sit in the sun, and try to soak up as much as I can. My mom used to slather me in sunscreen because she always said The Williams’ never get tan. Well, I put that to rest. My skin in the summer is more of an olive complexion from spending most of my days outside.

  I situate myself at a small table at the edge of the patio. The woman glances over at me, and she looks like she wants to put my napkin on my lap. Shark benefits from her enthusiasm as well, because she eventually brings over a bowl of water for him to drink. He's very appreciative and starts drinking away.

  She looks at me and smirks. “Want some coffee?”

  I pop an eyebrow at her. “Sure. Black.”

  I like the simple thing in life. Nothing fancy, no frills, just the basic stuff. Since moving to Montana, that's how I eat, drink, and live. Back in Chicago, my parents made sure everything was extravagant and reeked of wealth. They loved the fanciest cuisines from around the world, elegant wines, and would only drink sparkling mineral waters that were alkalized in France along with other expensive nonsense. At the cabin, I drink filtered water from the land and often hunt for my food. I’m living the way I’ve always wanted.

  The woman brings over my cup of coffee, and I take a sip of the hot brew. As she walks away, I feel awkward, not sure what to do with myself. If I go to the Mountain Brewery for a Guinness at least I can drink a beer in silence and watch sports. It's perfectly reasonable to do that, but to sit outdoors at a café with Shark, I feel out of place.

  As I'm browsing the menu, the sound of dishes crashing to the ground pulls my attention away. A waitress is kneeling to pick up the pieces. She's obviously flustered about it, and I rush over to assist any way I can.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her softly, but she only nods while avoiding my gaze.

  She reaches for the same piece as I do and we both pull our hands back.

  “Sorry,” she mutters. “I swear I’m not always this clumsy. My manager is going to chew my ass out for this.”

  I grab the rest of the shattered pieces and put them on her tray. “Accidents happen. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  Groaning, she sets the tray on a nearby table and sighs when a busboy arrives with a dustpan and sweeps up the small pieces.

  “Hopefully. I can’t afford another dip into my paycheck.”

  Standing, I hold my arm out to help her up and when she looks up at me, my breath hitches.

  She's stunning even with her chocolate brown hair tossed up in a messy bun. It's hard not to notice her beauty and toned body. She places her hand in mine and when I help her to her feet, the air stills between us. Heat hits her cheeks, and I know she's embarrassed.

  My stomach is growling, and I need to eat, but I can't stop looking at her. There aren't a lot of people in the café because it's a few hours after lunch, so maybe she's the only server at the moment, or at least I find myself hoping so.

  “Thank you,” she finally speaks. “I appreciate your help.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I’ll be right back to take your order,” she tells me, lowering her eyes to where our hands are still touching.

  “Yes, of course.” I release her hand and walk back to my table to where Shark is eagerly waiting for me.

  I pet his hand, noticing how much calmer he looks now that he's hydrated.

  “You feel better, buddy?” I ask. Rubbing my sweaty palms

  “That’s a huge dog,” a soft recognizable voice says, and I turn to find the waitress standing over me. I notice how close she is and I can almost smell the sweetness of her skin.

  “He’s just a big ole’ puppy though.” I look up at her and smiles.

  She laughs, and I can't help but notice how pretty she is, without even trying. Shark sniffs her foot, and I'm happy he's being on his best behavior. Shark's a sweet dog, but sometimes he barks or jump on new people, and it usually scares the crap out of them.

  “Are you ready to order?” the waitress asks. I look down at the menu trying to decide, and I can feel her eyes on me, watching me intently.

  I suck in a deep breath and choose. “I'm thinking the Reuben.”

  “Are you sure? There’s other items that I personally think taste better,” she says, leaning over my shoulder and pointing at the items on the menu. “The goat cheese and fig flatbread, and the avocado hummus spinach wrap are my favorite.”

  “Just the Reuben.”

  “Suit yourself,” she replies. “Fries, coleslaw, or salad?”

  “Fries.”

  She holds back a laugh, and I have a feeling she wanted me to choose something else. There's a moment of silence, and I'm not sure whether to laugh or roll my eyes. After she's written down the order and repeated it back, I can see she's even trying to hold back laughter.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve got a bad habit of making suggestions.”

  “No worries. I’ll have to come back another day for the avocado hummus spinach wrap.”

  And feed it to my dog.

  She smiles at me before she walks away.

  I continue to drink my coffee, and every so often I see her helping other tables, fetching more coffee, refilling water, and delivering trays of food. She smiles and treats each guest the same way, and I overhear her suggest items to customers. It's hard not to watch her, but I try to focus on Shark, so I don't seem like I'm staring.

  The food doesn't take too long, and when she carries it over she places it in front of me, and I find myself staring at her hands and wrists. She's dainty but womanly, and I find myself imagining her naked.

  “Enjoy.” She licks her lips before smiling and walking away.

  Something flickers in her eyes. Is she interested? Or just confused by the way I look? I’m dirty from working, and my hair is a mess. I’m so out of touch with these things because I haven't dated anyone since moving to Whitefish. I’m rusty.

  I dig into my Reuben sandwich and devour it. I managed to give Shark a few pieces of corned beef, but I don't think he even chewed it; rather, inhaled it in one bite.

  Once I clear my plate, I move it out of my way.

  As if it were a cue, she walks up seeing that it’s empty. “How was everything?”

  “Great, thanks.” It's an understatement though because the sandwich was fucking fantastic. Not often do I splurge on food like that.

  “Would you like some dessert?”

  I look her up and down and wonder if she’s on the menu, but keep my thoughts to myself. “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll get your check then.” She picks up the plate and walks away, and I realize I haven’t gotten her name.

  A minute later she comes back and refills my coffee and places a slice of blueberry pie in front of me.

  “Oh, I didn’t order that,” I say, thinking she made a mistake or misheard me.

  “I know.” She places my check down on the table and walks away. At the bottom, she circled the price and drew a smiley face at the top. When I read her name printed in the top corner I smile. Brianna.

  It’s a beautiful name and fitting for her. Elegant but simple.

  I place my credit card on the edge of the table and wait for her to return.

  “Are you Brianna?” I ask, handing her my credit card.

  “Yep. I am,” she says, putting out her hand to shake mine. I take it in mine, and notice how soft she feels. It's small and cool to the touch. “Brianna Carson.”

  “I'm Tate,” I reply. I almost say my last name, but quickly stop myself. Though it's stupid to think that some waitress in Whitefish, Montana would recognize the Williams name, yet, I still hold back.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Tate. Are you just passing through?”

  “No, I live here. Just a few miles up the mountain.”

  “Oh, I thought I knew everyone in this town.” She looks genuinely surprised, and I can’t tell if it’s a pleasant surprise or not.

  “I keep to myself a lot
.”

  “Brianna, you’ve got two new tables!” a man calls from the other end of the patio. He looks annoyed, but the way he snaps at her kind of irritates me.

  “Be right there,” Brianna calls back. She turns to me again. “Sorry, it’s getting busy.”

  “It’s alright. Go do your thing.”

  “It’ll be like this for another hour or so, and then the dinner crowd will be worse,” she says, dread on her face.

  “You’re working two shifts?” I ask.

  “Yep. It’s what pays the bills.” She shrugs.

  “Understandable.” I smile, seeing how hard she’s working.

  “Well, nice meeting you, Tate,” Brianna says, then turns and walks off with the pot of coffee tightly grasped in her hand.

  “You too.”

  I watch her walk away, and I find myself admiring her curves. I wish that the café wasn't getting busy so that we could talk more. Surprising, considering that I haven't craved conversation in a while.

  The pie is delicious. I savor it but know I've got to get going because I need to get back to chopping trees at the cabin. I write a one hundred dollar tip on the credit card slip and make the zeros into smiley faces, just like the ones Brianna wrote on the top of my check.

  “Come on, Shark,” I say, taking his leash and walking through the patio area toward the gate that leads to the sidewalk. The other customers watch Shark as he passes by and he could care less about anyone.

  I open the gate for Shark, and walk him to the truck and open the door, and he climbs in without help. Walking around to the driver's side, I'm full and happy and glad I stopped at the café. Just as I put the key in the ignition and hear the familiar growl of my engine, I look back toward the café. Brianna steps outside, her brown hair blowing in the breeze and she’s walking to the table where my credit card slip is.

  Shock covers her face when she sees the tip, and she looks up and looks around. The noise from my engine causes her to look in my direction, and our eyes meet again. She gives me a warm, relaxed smile, and I half-attempt the same.

  “Thank you,” she mouths and waves goodbye to me. I do the same and feel like an idiot knowing how happy I made her. I hope she doesn't think that I'm aloof or something because, in reality, I find myself intrigued by Brianna Carson.

  2

  Brianna

  I’m so damn clumsy today. First I drop a tray of dishes, and now I have to clean up a plate of salad that hit the floor. Sometimes I wonder why I chose to stay in Whitefish and become a waitress in the first place. I could’ve gotten out of this town and done something with my life, but once dad got sick, it felt like I had no other option, but I’m making the best of it.

  I do like the food at the Whitefish Cafe, and I'm a people person, so it makes my job easy. I'm not so crazy about the tourists that come during the winter, because they're always starving after a full day of skiing and they're pushy. But thankfully, things are a bit more relaxed during the summer, and people are more patient, except for today.

  The day was slow, and as soon as a gorgeous man came and sat down, it's like every person in the town wanted to eat a wrap.

  Tate. At first, I didn't know what to make of him with that beard and clothes, but his green eyes were striking. They pulled me in and still haven’t let me go. I can’t stop thinking about them.

  And I’m pretty sure he’s the reason for my slippery hands and screwing up orders. I'm just distracted. I was almost thankful when he left because I figured my concentration would return, but that wasn’t the case. After his generous tip, I'm left standing in shock. It would’ve taken me at least two days to make a hundred bucks.

  “Brianna, can you do a double tomorrow?” Josh asks. He’s my manager and not my biggest fan.

  “I’ve been on a double the past two days,” I protest. I’m clearing plates because the busboy seems just as out-to-lunch today as I am.

  “Vanessa called in sick. We need you,” Josh says, begging.

  I want to say no. I want to make excuses and say that I’m doing something important tomorrow, but the truth is there's nothing more important than paying the bills, so I cave.

  “Sure,” I say, taking the dishes to the back, wishing I could sleep in one day this weekend, but I know that’s a wasted wish.

  Damn. Will I ever have a break? I work non-stop and could definitely use a vacation. But I’m happy to finally help my dad while paying for my own little place. It’s the best of both worlds. Dad has my support, and I have my privacy. So, though I don't want to, I’ll be working another double tomorrow, and I won't feel sorry for myself for one second. It is what it is.

  As I’m pouring ranch dressing on top of a salad, I can’t stop thinking about Tate. Maybe he’s a gardener, I think to myself. He had a huge lawn mower in the back of his truck, and his clothes were filthy. I also noticed his worn and callused hands as if he used them a lot, but there’s something about him that makes me think he's a gardener. He was a big guy, muscular build, not that I was staring, but he had a lot of muscle on him. Maybe he's a lumberjack. The thought makes me laugh, and I’ve no idea why I can't get him off my mind.

  “I ordered the Florentine omelet,” an annoyed woman says.

  “Right, of course. It’s coming soon,” I reply, carrying a plate of scrambled eggs Florentine back to the kitchen, rolling my eyes at myself. Messed up that order too, but I’m finding it hard to pay attention. I glance toward the parking lot like I’m expecting that Tate guy to magically return. How silly. I'm never like this, but he's like the new guy in town, though he lives here. I could’ve sworn I knew everyone in my hometown.

  During the rest of my shift, I luckily have no more spills, and I’m on my A-game by the time the dinner hour hits. Almost every customer sits outside because it’s a beautiful night. The cool breeze accompanied the twinkling stars. The views are one of the benefits of living in Whitefish. There’s nothing like this in any other place in the world.

  After I close out my final check and do my side work, it’s time for the best part of the night. I order a sandwich to-go then I get into my Honda Civic and drive the half mile to my dad's house. It seems silly to drive such a short distance, but he always complains that he doesn't like me walking at night. His little house looks pretty ragged on the outside, but it takes a beating during the winter, and he doesn’t have the energy or resources to fix it. I hope to help him fix it up one day.

  The house is dark, so I'm sure dad’s sleeping, but it still makes me feel good to check in on him. Once I walk in, I hear light snoring, and I walk over to his bed, sitting on the side of it. I lean over and kiss his forehead. He looks so frail lying in bed, and it causes my heart to lurch forward. I rest my hand on his for a moment and then get up from the bed, tiptoeing to the living room.

  Dread comes over me. The fear of the future and what’s going to happen to dad, and how we’re going to pay for his medical bills weighs heavy on my mind. Mom hasn’t been in the picture for most of my life. She fled when I was a little girl, and even dad has no idea where she is.

  I refuse to let my thoughts go dark tonight. I’ve never been one to sit back and feel sorry for myself. I place the sandwich I got for dad in the fridge and write a note on the whiteboard, letting him know I stopped by. Once I get back into my car, I text my best friend Callie, and she agrees to meet me at my house. I don't live too far away, and while my house is nothing fancy, it's mine.

  I walk through the door, pick up my dirty uniforms and start a load of clothes. It takes Callie all of five minutes to arrive. She walks through the door with a bag of chips and some salsa. I grab two beers from the fridge, and we fall into our routine of girl talk and eating.

  “You wouldn’t believe this crazy lady today,” Callie says, getting comfy on the couch and dipping a chip into some salsa. She works at the only grocery store within a one hundred mile radius and knows most of the gossip that’s floating around in town.

  “Oh, no. What happened?” I ask, taking a si
p from my bottle of beer.

  “So she comes over with this huge bag of purple vegetables, and as far as I know, this stuff is squash,” Callie says.

  “It’s eggplant. Haven’t you had eggplant parmigiana before?” I ask.

  Recognition crosses her face. “That's the stuff with all the cheese?” She smiles, taking a sip of beer.

  “Yes,” I reply, stifling a laugh.

  “Right. That’s what I thought too, eggplant. Anyway, she comes over and is very pissed. Like there’s a permanent frown on her face or something, and she looks like she's sucking on a lemon. Anyway, she puts the huge bag on the scale, and I politely ask her what it is, just trying to make conversation. Then she looks at me like I have a disease and she says aubergine.”

  “That's another name for it.” I chuckle.

  “I've never heard that in my life. And I make a small joke about it being eggplant, and she proceeds to tell me that I don't know how to do my job. I mean, she's getting furious about this whole aubergine or eggplant thing, so the manager, Jessica, comes over and says that it’s brinjal.”

  “It sounds like you’ve learned your eggplant synonyms today.”

  “Tell me about it,” Callie says, cocking her head and contemplating it all.

  “I’m sure she was just a pissy old lady that needs to get laid. Did you know her?” I ask.

  “No, just another bitchy tourist that thinks she knows everything.” Callie laughs.

  I roll my eyes. “They’re the absolute worst,” I say knowing I should be grateful. It's the tourists after all that pay my bills. We both get quiet, and then I think about Tate. “I met someone interesting today.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. A townie. But someone I’ve never seen before. I thought that I knew everyone here.”

  “There are always folks coming out of the woodwork. Just the other day at the supermarket I met an old man that has lived here all his life. But he sits in his cabin all day. I guess he finally decided to come out and buy some food,” she tells me.