by Wyatt, Dani
Even so, I secretly love how clumsy she is.
I love everything about her.
Chapter Two
LEXI
“SERIOUSLY? HE’S never kissed you? Never tried to feel you up? Nothing?” Heather pokes me playfully in the cheek with her index finger, fighting a grin. “Not even a peck right here?”
“Stop!” I swat her hand away. Living and working together has made us like sisters. “You don’t need to be all up in my Cheerios.”
I reach around to untie my apron, wrinkling my nose in melodramatic disgust. The dandelion-yellow fabric is dotted with bits of today’s special: deep-fried stuffed spinach cayenne tofu balls with basil kefir drizzle. The lady with too much perfume and the glittery ball cap knocked it all over me as I was setting down her plate. Apparently, whatever she was talking about required some especially expressive hand gestures.
I take a whiff of the apron and roll my eyes. Lucky I have plenty of quarters for the laundry. I wad it up, kefir side in, and stuff it into my messenger bag with the “Live slow. Die Whenever.” sloth patch sewn onto the front.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask Heather as she follows my lead and folds her apron neatly before putting it into her backpack.
“Not sure.” Heather tugs the rope on her raw cotton tunic tight at the waist then loops it into a loose bow. “There’s a PBS Hitler documentary on. It’s only a four-hour series, so after that...dunno.” She reaches up to tighten her messy bun. “Probably Salinger. Or Vonnegut.”
A single strand of golden hair hangs from the crown of her head, directly down her nose, and she does nothing about it. It’s driving me mad. But even so, I can’t help but think that hair like hers could send legions of men into battle, like some sort of heroic Greek saga. It’s that beautiful, hanging nearly to the center of her back in perfect Californian waves.
Not that she’s ever set foot out of Portland. Her parents were part of what’s known around here as a co-op. Everyone else would call it a cult.
You can check in, but you can’t check out sort of deal.
When she was eight or nine, even she isn’t sure, the Feds raided the compound, and Heather was removed, placed in state care due to severe neglect. She weighed just thirty pounds. Horrifying. And her hair, which is now so stunning she could pass for a Victoria’s Secret model, had to be shaved from her head; infested with lice, it was matted into one huge dreadlock, dulled to brown with muck.
Since then, it’s been foster homes and now probation. Like me. The probation, that is.
“I’ve got a half pound of filet coming my way,” she adds “Ricky promised me.”
She’s a closet carnivore, which around here is the worst of the seven sins. And on our budget, most of our food comes from our job at Moe’s. Not that I’m complaining. One of the perks of this job is you get two full meals a day to eat in or take out. No charge. Even when you have the day off.
When I was seven, when my life was normal and my biggest worry was if I could stay up to watch another episode of something on Disney Junior, my parents took me to Kentucky Fried Chicken one night for dinner. I remember the moment of revelation that evening. That the drumstick I brought to my mouth was actually part of a chicken.
From that day on, my natural inclination has been to avoid meat. Since starting at Moe’s, I’ve sipped more of the Kool-Aid and slipped fairly easily into a vegan diet. Thank goodness for the free meals there, because eating vegan isn’t always for the budget conscious.
“Ricky?” I groan, adding an eye roll for good measure. “Please, don’t let him back in our room.”
Our efficiency is just around the corner from here. Another benefit of the Count On sponsorship program is we get a decent room in a good area of Portland. It’s not free but subsidized as part of the program which Rueger’s company funds.
“Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m picking it up in the back alley behind the butcher shop, like some sort of seedy drug deal.” She grins.
Ricky has a room in the same house as us and works part time at a local co-op, grass-fed, hand-raised, humane butcher shop.
That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one.
Ricky is half Spicoli and half Rodney Dangerfield, with a bloodstained apron. He gives me the creeps because he’s just always around, you know?
“Okay.” I cross the strap of my bag over my body then reach around to try to discreetly tug my underwear wedgie free. “Well then, I guess I’m off.” I take a quick look in the cracked mirror over the sink. My hair is my hair. It’s not Heather’s, but I do love the little colorful rainbow tips she did for me last weekend.
Rueger and I have spent enough time together that I shouldn’t be so nervous. He’s always been the perfect gentleman. More than a gentleman, actually. Sort of a father figure. Makes it kind of awkward that I have all sorts of dirty thoughts about him, but still. I know his interest in me must be purely public relations, because he’s never stepped out of line. Not once.
“Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She winks, and I choose to ignore it. “Hey, we need to have a budget meeting tomorrow. The internet bill is going up to freakin’ ninety dollars.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Christ.” The curse slips out immediately, making me wince. Memories of one foster home in particular where a curse word earned you tobacco on the tongue flood back.
Heather and I both have an obsession with knowing where our money goes. You’d think we were Warren Buffetts in the making, the way we manage our funds. As limited as they are.
And it’s another reason we’ve been able to stay friends even when we work and room together. We are Excel spreadsheet sluts.
“Okay.” I nod, heading toward the door from the employee break room out into the restaurant. “I don’t have plans tomorrow. So we can squeeze the budget a little more.”
Heather twists her lips, staring at my outfit. “I like the shirt. It suits you. You deserve to be a Daddy’s girl.”
“Thanks.” I look down at the shirt then back to Heather. “I thought it was cute for fifty cents. And, I was a Daddy’s girl, once. For a while.” I swallow hard, grit my teeth, and try not to get lost in the memory of my dad. He and Mom have been gone for almost twelve years now, but the sting is still there.
I run my hand quickly across the glittery letters topping my boobs. I stopped into the Howard Street Thrift on Thursday after my shift. That’s the day they have 75 percent off everything that’s been there more than a month. It’s usually all crap, which is why it hasn’t sold, but this week I found this white T-shirt with the script letters spelling out “Daddy’s Girl”. I shrug, holding a shoulder to my ear before I reply. “It was my size, so I guess it was fate. I had fifty cents, they had this T-shirt. Win-win.”
I flash her a smile and walk out into the restaurant, taking a look at my phone. 1:54. My stomach does enough twists and flips for a gymnast’s floor routine. I know Rueger will already be here.
Parked out front.
He’s never late. Never even just on time. Always early.
Just the thought of him ignites a quivering inside me. Not only in my belly or between my legs, either. It’s in some core, deep down inside me. But he’s just doing this for PR, I remind myself. His company sponsors the Count On program, and for some reason, I’ve become his PR poster child.
Or at least, that’s what I figure.
But it’s funny because he never draws any attention to the time he spends with me. I’d think if it were purely PR, he’d have pictures taken or something. Truth is, I don’t care if it’s all just business. Any time I get to spend with him makes me feel good.
Not just good. Special. I can’t explain it.
He keeps me at arm’s length, but somehow, he still manages to make me feel cherished. I suppose I’m just an easy mark for that sort of thing.
I push my way through the crowd inside the deli, squeezing past the never-ending line of customers that trails out the front door. I can feel the tightness
starting in my ears.
Yes, my ears.
Then it traces down each side of my neck and spins like vines, trapping me in this feeling that’s somewhere between all-out panic and full-on schoolgirl crush. I know he’s seen me before I spot him, leaning against his classic Jeep Wagoneer, wood paneled sides and all.
“Right on time.” He looks at me with that brilliant, cockeyed smile tipping his full lips, and I’m 100 percent swoon.
“You don’t like for me to be late,” I respond, not even thinking about it before I recite the words. “Didn’t take me long to learn that.”
In the time I’ve known him, he’s been clear about things he likes and doesn’t like. Even making little rules for me, which I secretly adore. I’m sure most women would tell him to go shove his rules up his perfectly taut ass, but not me. It’s just another thing that draws me to him like a moth to a flame.
I watch him shift his weight and push up from where he was leaning to stand tall. His close-cropped brown hair contrasts with the length of groomed, trimmed beard that covers his face. He’s a man of contrasts, his nearly Viking roughness balanced with an impeccable sense of effortless style.
His raw sex appeal balances with a nurturing, warm heart that makes you want to curl up in his lap for a nice hug and a slap on your ass.
Not to mention he smells soooooo good. Like he’s been hung out in the summer breeze to dry after his shower, then sprinkled with just a hint of what I imagine a forest would smell like after a rain.
He takes a deep breath, arms crossed over his gray T-shirt. Today is casual day, and I’m not sure which look I find sexier. I’ve seen him in an array of expensive suits, each of which sends my panties dropping to my ankles. But then he has this side of him, the casual side. Still flawless, but with an air of easy comfort. Always classic Levi 505s, though. Button-fly, of course.
I’ve looked.
Oh, how I’ve looked.
And wondered just how long it would take me to rip that fly open with my teeth.
“You are a quick study, Lex. You know how much I like my rules.”
“Yes.” I squeeze my thumbs under my fingers and turn the toes of my right foot inward. “I’m beginning to pick up on some things about you.” I cross my fisted hands over my chest, feeling the sun warming my back, and a quick breeze fluffs my skirt around my thighs.
“Is that a fact?” Another deep breath stretches the gray jersey fabric across his chest. I see the indents and pressure from where the muscles of his torso create an almost X-ray effect on the fabric. He’s thick everywhere I can see. Not overly bulky.
And in height, he dwarfs me. He’s got to be six foot five, because my dad was about six three, and Rueger has a couple inches on that memory.
“You ready for the zoo?”
The smile on his lips is inviting, the sapphire blue of his eyes hypnotic. I’d never really considered what makes a man sexy to me until Rueger.
He’s far from slick. The words pretty boy would not apply. He’s a bit crooked, even, when I think about it. His nose sits a bit to the left, which balances the way his full upper lip lifts slightly upward at the right corner from the scar that pulls there.
He looks happy today, but suddenly I think it’s more than that. More than just contentment. He looks pleased. I remember seeing a look like that in my father’s eyes whenever I did something that made him proud.
His eyes wander over me and come to rest on my chest. I swear he’s never done that before.
At least, not so obviously. And, my God, those eyes of his. I think Facebook stole their blue from his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like that; they deserve their own patent.
“New shirt.” He clears his throat and brings a hand to grip over his mouth, holding it there for a moment, then shaking his head and finally breaking his gaze from my chest.
That’s another reason I think I’m so drawn to Rueger. He has that same genuine interest in me. In seeing me succeed.
And it’s not as though he’s dating me. Even when I think about the few boyfriends I’ve had, none of them seemed to care at all about what made me tick, what was inside my head. They all seemed more interested in what I could do for them.
Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all, it didn’t save me from letting a couple of them get what it was they wanted from me a few times. I shake the thought away. Those fumbling, insecure boys from the past are nothing compared to Rueger. Even if I will never be more than his mentee, I savor every moment we are together, fueling my foolish, girlish dreams that there could ever be anything more.
I pluck an invisible bit of lint from the front of my new shirt before I reply. “I saw it and liked it.” I bounce up and down on my toes, having a hard time controlling my nervous energy when he’s close. “I’m ready to go when you are.”
Who would have thought a twenty-three-year-old waitress with a petty theft arrest record and a semicolon tattoo would be taking so much joy in a simple trip to the zoo with her probation project sponsor?
“Okay, then let’s go. We are sloth-ward bound.” He unfolds his right arm in an arc toward the front of the Wagoneer, urging me forward. I straighten in anticipation of the gentle contact I know is coming. His hand at the small of my back as I step in front of him.
Even knowing it’s coming, I can’t help the reaction even the slightest touch from him ignites inside me, the flames that shoot down the backs of my legs. Such a gentleman in such a rugged physical form.
The next minute, he’s got me securely fastened into the passenger seat, leaning over me as he snaps my seat belt into place. I think of pressing my lips into his beard. He’s so close I can see the coarse hair a mere inch from my nose. I’m barely breathing when he closes the door and works his way back around to the driver’s side.
As the engine growls awake with a turn of the key, I clutch my bag tight on my lap, biting my bottom lip to keep from showing just how thrilled I am to be here. With him. Right now.
Only this time, he doesn’t immediately drive away. He looks over without a hint of shame, his eyes roving over my chest again, making the heat pool between my legs and on the tips of my ears.
His gaze sticks on the points of my nipples as they start to tighten into knots, his hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, tighter and tighter until his knuckles are white and the veins on the backs of his hands dance like vines.
Oh God, his hands. What is it about his hands? They send my stomach toppling up and over itself at a simple glance.
“Everything okay?” I ask, wiggling a little in my seat, and I nervously cross my ankles.
When he doesn’t immediately respond, I uncross them and cross them the other way, dropping my eyes and studying my feet like they’re the most interesting things in the world. The red Converse Chuck Taylors he got me for my birthday last month rasp against each other, the huge-looped lavender laces trying to tangle.
Oh my God, I wish my heart would slow down. At this rate, I’ll have to start to worry about a cardiologist at my age.
He takes a deep, loud breath through his nose, holding it. A second passes, then another, and I find myself holding my own breath right along with him. Another second, another. The moment seems to stretch into eternity. The rust-colored vinyl seat sticks to the backs of my legs as I try to shift and find some comfort.
Something is different.
He feels different.
Anxious, maybe? Something is off. As always, he’s cloaked in his reserved calm, but I feel something vibrating just under the surface.
I turn to watch him, his eyelids closed, his face serene, his breath held. It seems like the whole world is silent. Then he opens his eyes and turns away, looking out the driver’s window, the Jeep humming below us.
“I’ll be right back.” The sound in his voice matches the pained look on this face as his hand moves from the steering wheel to the door handle, jerking it upward. “I just need a second.”
A moment later and he’s out, slamming the door
behind him, leaving me sitting there wondering what the heck is going on. He’s never been like this before. Never out of sorts or ill at ease.
I look down at my outfit, wondering if something about me is unsettling for him. I know he likes the shoes because he gave them to me. I’m wearing a gauzy white skirt and the T-shirt from the thrift store. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Nothing too revealing.
My heart is thundering in my chest as I turn to watch Rueger walk around to the back of the Wagoneer, hoping he isn’t sick or he isn’t going to tell me we can’t go for some reason. His hands grip the back of his head as he walks, then one moves to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he stands still, breathing heavily.
Something is definitely wrong, and I have a horrible feeling I might know what it is: these afternoon outings are beginning to wear on him. I mean, he’s got his huge company to run. I have no idea what kind of pressure that puts him under. What the heck is he doing spending so much of his time with a nobody like me? I Googled him. His company, Viking Ventures, is not on the Fortune 500 list, but it’s up there.
Not to mention I’ve spent a few devastating internet searches looking at photos of Rueger at events with a stunning brunette on his arm and a few blondes in older photos. I’ve saved myself from the humiliation of digging too deep into who he is or who they are. Not wanting to pop the bubble of my fantasies about him. He’s told me he’s never been married. No kids, but still that little voice inside my head sometimes chirps at me. Reminding me that the world is full of liars.
Flames light up my cheeks, and I have to turn away. The little part of me that still held a fantasy about being more than just a PR opportunity begins to disintegrate inside my heart.
One last glance back and he’s stepping up onto the sidewalk on my side of the car. I hurry and grip the door handle. If I get out and tell him maybe it’s time we stopped these little adventures, at least I’ll leave here with a sugar packet-full of my ego intact.
