by Linnea May
"Let me handle this," I tell her. "I caused this, after all."
She huffs. "You heard him. That smug asshole doesn't feel the least bit responsible. What the hell are you going to do?"
I don't know. I really don't know. I don't know what I want to say to him, I don't know what I could say to help the situation.
I sigh then, lowering my shoulders in defeat as I watch him walking further and further away. He’s buttoning his suit jacket to hide the stains on his white shirt. That wet, white shirt, sticking to his chiseled chest...
Chapter 6
Jason
My hotel is just a short walk from the convention center, but this morning, I need about twice as long to get there than I did yesterday.
They weren't kidding when they said it was going to snow. A lot.
Snow started falling shortly after I arrived two days ago, but until last night, it was nothing more than a few light flakes here and there, barely enough to cover the ground. It picked up last evening when I left the venue with some of our associates to head out for dinner. The men were commenting on the weather then, already worrying that they might not make it home after the convention ended, while I just shrugged it off. I checked my flight's status this morning and it was still on schedule. These idiots have so little to worry about that they make a mountain out of a dust speck.
But as soon as I step outside the hotel and see the total snow accumulation for myself – more than fifteen inches so far – I can't deny that even I am starting to worry about my chances of getting home as planned.
I trudge through the drifts of snow, cursing the flakes that are still coming down and threatening to ruin my hair. This damn presentation can't be over soon enough, so I can stop worrying. Luckily, I’m one of the first speakers scheduled to present, so I can rest easy about it for the rest of the convention, maybe even have a drink for lunch.
I step through the giant glass doors, tapping the snow off of my coat before I make my way down the same hallway where I had my encounter with the waitress yesterday.
She's still on my mind, and it annoys the hell out of me. I tried to tell myself that it was just because I left things in such a dowdy way, yelling at her and leaving her alone with the mess. Then, when I tried to apologize, if only to make myself feel better, I couldn't do it properly because her dumb friend kept interfering.
Admittedly, all of that bothers the hell out of me, but it's not the main reason why I can't get her out of my head. There's something about her, something that attracts and draws me to her like a fucking moth to a flame. And the most annoying part is that I can't pinpoint what it is. She's pretty, all right. Slim, delicate, brunette, blue eyes, red lips – oh, those fucking lips. She's so my type. She's feisty, but not a brat or a bitch like her friend appeared to be.
She's foreign, of that I’m convinced. Her accent gets thicker when she raises her voice, but I can't identify where she’s originally from.
As I pass through the glass door she darted through yesterday, I instinctively turn to look behind me to see if there is anyone there.
There isn't.
A part of me wishes I had thought to pay this kind of attention to my surroundings yesterday. Who knows what would have happened? Nothing, most likely, as I'm too occupied with my duties to chase after a cute little skirt. But had I decided that I wanted her, I would make sure to get her. That's how I operate.
I scan the convention hall for her when I reach the main area, but she's nowhere to be seen. It's still early, and there's only a handful of attendees gathered, standing around in circles, sipping on coffee and conducting friendly small talk. None of the waitress girls that staffed yesterday are present. A surge of cold panic courses through my veins and I find myself struggling to catch my breath.
Will I not see her again?
And why the fuck am I worrying about that?
I check the time in an effort to bring my mind back to what really matters. My presentation, our business, our image. I have to focus.
"Jason!"
I'm startled by Danny's voice. He laughs when he sees me jerking back at his call.
"You all right, man?" he asks, his tone a bit too friendly for my taste. "You seem a little out of it."
I paste on my confident smile and reach out to grasp his hand in a professional shake as he closes in on me. "Just a little tired is all."
"A little nervous, are we?" He winks at me, and I swallow the distaste it brings.
"No," I lie. "It'll be fine. I'm not worried."
He nods dramatically. "Of course not."
I have no choice but to say yes when he asks me to grab a coffee together. There's no one else to talk to, nowhere else to be. My eyes wander left and right as we make our way through the convention hall. I know I'm looking for her, but I can't even admit it to myself.
Who cares if she's still here? Who cares if you see her again? This shouldn't concern you. You have bigger things to do.
Get your shit together.
Focus, you idiot. Focus.
Chapter 7
Lena
"I didn't expect to see you today!"
Mrs. Lynn is a sweet old lady, but her voice is as pervasive as that of a strong man. I jerk in surprise, even though I knew she must be around. The diner just opened, and while I'm usually one of the first ones here, she's always quick to follow.
I turn around, smiling at her standing in the doorway leading from the guest room to the kitchen in the back. She’s slowly unwrapping the bulky, red scarf she's wearing around her neck to protect herself from the biting cold outside.
"Aileen took the day off," she says, her words muffled by her scarf. "I expected you to take another rest day, as well."
I shake my head. "We can't both disappear on the same day. Someone has to be here."
"I'm here!" Mrs. Lynn argues. "And so is Alfie! That should be more than enough for the two or three customers we can expect today."
"Two or three customers?" I repeat, chuckling. "Why so pessimistic, Mrs. Lynn?"
She tilts her head to the side and eyes me as if I'd just uttered the most stupid thing in the world, as she eases the zipper of her thick winter coat down and shrugs the heavy coat from her shoulders.
"Have you seen the weather outside?" she asks. "People would be crazy to leave the house today. The roads are a disaster. They closed all the airports in the area, too."
My eyes widen in surprise. "Really? It’s that bad?"
She nods fervently, her gray locks springing away from her head in a ruffled mess when she removes her hat. "They say it's the worst blizzard we've had in years."
"Huh," I murmur, all the while fixing the apron around my waist. "I wonder how all those people at the convention are going to make out."
The words fell from my mouth without a second thought. I bite at my lip, as if I'd somehow spoken out of turn, even though it’s natural to worry about people you only met, served, and talked to a day before.
People you've bumped into. People whose shirts you've ruined. People who are built like…
Mrs. Lynn hangs her coat on a wire hanger and shrugs. "I doubt they'll get very far. Let's hope they know how to cozy up to stay warm in that lovely convention center."
She winks at me. The convention center in the neighboring town does bring in good business for us and other local stores on a regular basis, but it's a well known fact that the building is probably one of the ugliest ones every built. It's very pragmatic, its only purpose to be a large, cold, and empty space for holding meetings, conferences, conventions, and exhibitions. We often cater these events, depending on their size, and because of that our tiny diner has been able to make a name for itself. We're know for our melt-in-your-mouth homemade doughnuts and hearty trademark sandwiches. The events themselves that we cater rarely if ever mean much to me. All that matters is the size of the event. I need to know how many mouths to feed, but I don't need to know anything else about the people we’re serving.
Like the
convention we catered the day before yesterday. I know very little about it, other than it seemed like it was being organized by a typical big city business – and that the infamous Conner family was part of it. There were a lot of men in expensive, dark suits, a few women here and there in business suits, and a handful of ladies sporting something a bit more colorful and feminine, probably wives and girlfriends. It exuded the impression of the kind of company I would never like to work for.
"I'm going to start the coffee," Mrs. Lynn announces, as she shuffles over to the coffee machine. "We should get ready for breakfast."
I nod and make a move to get back out to the guest room, when she calls me back.
"Oh, how's that little rodent doing?" she asks, winking as I turn to face her with an exasperated gasp.
"Her name is Risu," I tell her. "And she's doing a lot better."
That little rodent Mrs. Lynn referred to is a young squirrel I rescued about a week ago. I didn't plan on rescuing animals since Oma died, but it's been harder to stop than I anticipated. After so many years helping her care for any injured or ill wildlife in our forest, it just comes naturally to me, I guess. I haven't been to the wildlife rehab center in a while, but I still donate when I can, and Oma's house is still considered the place to go for anyone who finds a wild animal in need.
That's how I met Risu. A neighbor found her, frozen and starved, with a broken limb. She would have died had she been left to fend for herself.
But she wasn't. She was brought to our house, a tiny ball of fur, shivering with cold and fear, looking up at me in a way that made it impossible to reject her.
I took her in, even letting her live inside the house, because winter is brutal and I can't trust that she'd be okay left out in the compound we have built in our garden. Squirrels are not meant to be kept inside, but for now she's safer inside with me than she'd be outside. After all, I don't plan on keeping her, once she's doing better and the weather turns a little less harsh, no matter how much I've grown attached to her.
Mrs. Lynn smiles at me, and I know what she's going to say before she opens her mouth.
"Just like our Hannah," she says. "She could never say no when one of those little creatures needed her help. You're so much like her."
Her voice is heavy with sadness, and she sighs when she sees that same shadow of sorrow flicker across my face.
It's been almost a year since my Oma died, almost a year since I lost the last member of my family. She had been taking care of me since I was in high school, but our roles reversed around the time I was about to graduate. She wasn't even that old, and I'm sure she could have lived another ten years, maybe more, if that son of a bitch cancer hadn’t taken her.
"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Lynn says. "I didn't want to-"
"It's fine," I assure her. "Don't worry about it."
I cast her a half-hearted smile and then make my way back to the guest room. Mrs. Lynn had been a friend of my Oma for decades, and I know that her death must have been just as painful for her as it was for me. She has been trying to take care of me ever since Oma died, but I never let her. I've been a caretaker for too long to let anyone carry that burden for me.
After all, I'm doing okay. I'm fine.
Or I will be. Some day.
I take a deep breath before stepping through the doorway, just in case there's already a customer waiting for me. I don't really expect one because it's still early and we just opened, but when I return to the front, there’s someone sitting at the counter. A well-built man, dressed in black.
Not just any man.
It's him.
Chapter 8
Jason
Her face was the last thing I expected to see in this forlorn place that can hardly be considered a town. What the hell is she doing here?
From the looks of it, she's asking herself the same question when she sees me sitting at the counter. She's wearing a cute little red waitress uniform with a red-and-white checkered pattern apron. The red of her outfit matches the red of her lipstick - and it makes my heart beat faster.
"Are you following me?" she snaps. She places her hands on her hips and plants herself across the counter from me.
"Jesus," I say, forcing out an irritated sigh as I lower my eyes and rub at my temples. Who the fuck does she think she is?
"What the hell are you doing here?"
She sounds tense and on edge, as if she was afraid of me or something.
"I could ask you the same question," I retort, lifting my eyes up to meet hers, which are dancing with fury.
She huffs indignantly. "I live here. I work here."
Well, that's obvious enough.
"You, on the other hand, have no business being here," she adds. "And if you’re because of that damned, shirt then-"
I cut her off. "I admire your confidence, but trust me, I'm not here because of you or because of my shirt. I don't even want to be here, okay?"
Our eyes lock onto each other, and she's pressing her lips together as if to force herself from speaking. She crosses her arms in front of her chest defensively and juts her chin forward.
"Then why are you here?" I can't help but notice the foreign accent creeping into her words as she gets worked up. Her words are clipped, and when she says 'then,' it sounds more like 'zen'. She said she lives here, but based on how she talks, I assume that hasn't always been the case.
I let out another pent-up sigh. This can't be fucking happening. Last night was rough enough. All I wanted right now was to warm up, get a cup of coffee, some food, and a decent Wi-Fi connection to do some research. The connection out here is a joke. I've been driving in a blinding snowstorm for hours, hardly able to see the road because of the damn snow, and I haven’t been able to get any further information about whether or not the weather conditions are about to change because my phone's reception is so bad.
"To be honest, I'm kind of stranded," I confess. Her face doesn't betray the slightest hint of empathy or curiosity, but I continue talking nonetheless.
"My flight got canceled, all flights did actually. I mean, not that there would have been a way to get to the airport in the first place because the road was closed, but I have to get back to New York."
"So you... decided to drive?" she asks, failing to withhold a chuckle and raising her one eyebrow condescendingly.
I nod. "It was no problem renting a car, and I figured the roads would be in better shape the farther south I drove."
She laughs out loud then, throwing her head back and holding her stomach. It would be cute, if she wasn't laughing at me.
"Are you fucking stupid?" she blurts out, snorting. "I mean, didn't you listen to the forecast? How could you even consider driving in this weather?"
I grind my teeth to keep myself from yelling at her. She's impertinent and disrespectful, and I wish I could bend her over this counter and spank the hell out of that pretty ass. I bet the marks would bloom brilliantly on her fair skin.
I wonder if she'd like to be spanked, if that's something she's ever fantasized about.
She leans forward then, her eyes seeking out mine. She’s supporting herself on her elbows on top of the counter, and I don’t let my surprise at her sudden proximity show. She's so close that I can smell her perfume. Citrusy, subtle, and fresh.
"It's almost a three-hour drive from the convention venue to here," she says, her tone more sympathetic than before. "You must have left at like four in the morning!"
When she says 'three' it sounds more like 'sree', but ever so slightly. It's hard to deny that her accent allures me. I've never had a foreign girl.
I shake my head. "Not exactly. I left last night, before midnight."
Her eyes grow wide, and her mouth opens and forms a little O.
"Damn," she exclaims. "You drove all night?"
"Well, I couldn't exactly go full speed," I say, gesturing toward the window. "That damn blizzard out there didn't let up the entire night, and I had no idea where I was going."
I dro
ve through the night and stopped in the early morning, but only when I realized I had no other choice. There was a gas station that saved my ass, because I could fill up my car, and the attendant informed me that the next town was about ten miles ahead. The guy never specified the size of the town, but at least it held a promise for some warm food and maybe even a place to rest. Even I have to admit at this point that it would be stupid to continue driving.
She laughs. "Well, as I've mentioned, driving in this weather may not have been your smartest idea."
"Maybe," I admit. Now I place my elbows on the counter and lean forward, my face so close to hers that our noses almost touch. She doesn't back off, much to my surprise.
"What's your plan now?" she asks. "It took you close to eight hours to get here. At this rate, it will take at least another full day to get to New York."
"For now, I'd like something to eat," I tell her. "And some coffee, if you don't mind."
"Coffee isn't ready yet," she replies, but her words are quickly refuted.
"Sure it is!" an elderly lady calls out from somewhere in the back. She's short and stout, with grey hair, wrinkles, and thick glasses perched on her nose. She looks like the epitome of a good-hearted grandma and the way she looks at the waitress girl makes me wonder if they're actually related.
"I just got the first pot started," she says, coming to a halt next to the girl and handing me a laminated menu.
"You're not from here," she says, stating the obvious.
I throw her a polite smile. "No, just traveling through."
The girl scoffs. "He thinks he can make it to New York."
She looks at the older lady with an amused smile on her face, but when she turns to me and her expression turns somewhat condescending. I hate it when people look at me like that.
"Today?" the older woman asks, arching her eyebrows in surprise. "With all due respect, sir, I hardly think that'll be possible. The blizzard is not supposed to end any time soon. They’re advising people to stay off the roads! It's life-threatening!"
