by Elise Noble
And being busy was a blessing, because at least it kept my mind off Oliver. Until it didn’t. He walked in at a quarter past seven, eyes on his ridiculous watch as he pushed through the door. For a brief second, I considered escaping to the break room, but then it was too late—he’d seen me.
Not that his face changed. Only his eyes latching onto mine gave the game away as he strode towards the back of the line. That contact was lost for a moment as the man ahead of him turned in greeting. A friend? A colleague? They certainly looked as if they knew each other.
“Uh, miss?”
The man at the front of the line brought me back to earth. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I’ll have a mocha latte with whip and one of those banana muffins.”
“Of course.”
I got the man his order, but my gaze kept straying to Oliver, now engrossed in conversation. A couple of times, I thought I saw him glance in my direction as well, or was I imagining it?
“You want me to take a turn with the coffee?” I asked Imogen. Anything to avoid speaking to Oliver.
“No, I’m good here.”
Rats. I’d found she preferred to make the drinks rather than speak to the customers. She said she’d had enough of faking niceness during her years with Octavia to do it every morning as well. And now there were only two people in front of Oliver.
“I’ll have a cookie and fresh orange juice to go.”
Make that one person.
All too soon, my nemesis reached the counter, and my stay of execution came to an end.
“So this is your new job?”
“No, I came in for a drink and they asked me to work the register.”
“Good to see your hangover hasn’t affected your fluency in sarcasm.”
“Do you want to order something? Or did you just come in for the atmosphere?”
He looked me up and down, slowly, taking his time, as if I didn’t have customers lining up out the door and Imogen frantically making drinks behind me.
“No, I came for the view.”
Lucky for him I didn’t have a drink in my hand, because he’d have ended up wearing it.
“Well, if you could stand to the side, I’d appreciate it, because the man behind you actually wants a coffee.”
He laughed, then reached into his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll have a grande Colombian, black.”
“Sugar?”
“I don’t usually like sweet things.”
Was that a dig at me? Why did the man have to be so damned confusing?
I took the ten dollars he offered me, careful not to let our fingers touch, and didn’t bother to thank him as he stuffed the change into the tip jar. I’d seen his office. He could afford it. And I avoided asking any more questions because I didn’t want to hear his answers anyway.
Imogen made his drink, and rather than hand it to me like she usually did, she gave it straight to Oliver with a stupid grin on her face.
He looked at me as he said, “Thank you, Imogen.”
So he knew her name? Tell me he wasn’t a regular?
“That man is so dreamy,” she whispered to me as she turned back to the coffee machine. “He’s a lawyer on the Carter case, did you know that? Have you met him? I saw him on TV.”
Dreamy? No, he was more the stuff of nightmares.
“It’s a big legal team. I think I’ve seen him around.” I didn’t want to put my weird non-relationship with Oliver into words. “Does he come in often?”
“Once or twice a week since I started here. And he always tips well. Generous and hot—what more could a girl want?”
“He looks like the type to break a girl’s heart.”
“But I bet you’d enjoy yourself before he did it.”
“I’d rather have a man who cared about me.”
She put one hand on my arm. “Stef, most men are assholes, and I’m sure we understand that better than most. Sometimes you’ve got to keep that thought in the back of your mind and use them like they use you.” She giggled. “Either that or stay celibate the rest of your life.”
I watched Oliver’s departing ass, and I had to admit it was a nice sight. “You don’t think he’s a bit old?”
“That man’s like a fine wine. He’s going to age well. And you know what they say?”
“What?”
“With age comes experience. I can’t say I’d turn him down.”
Oh, how right she was. Oliver sure had experience, that much was clear. I clenched my thighs together just thinking about it. If I could turn the clock back, knowing what I knew now, what would I have done? If I’d known he’d give me one amazing, unforgettable night then discard me like a piece of trash afterwards, would I still have slept with him?
I didn’t want to answer that question, and I hated myself for even asking it.
CHAPTER 13
I BLOCKED OLIVER from my mind for the rest of Thursday. I bet he didn’t give me a second thought after he saw me in Java, and he didn’t deserve any of my headspace either.
Instead, Imogen and I spent the evening pampering ourselves, and it turned out she had enough beauty products to open her own spa hidden away in the bathroom cupboard.
“How do you even pick what colour to do your nails?” I asked, surveying the array of polish.
“I work on a rotation system.” She picked up a bottle of hot pink. “Today, it’s Wild Strawberry with black accents. Want me to do yours?”
At least then the decision would be out of my hands. “Would you mind?”
“Heck, no. I’ll do them first—that way I won’t smudge mine.”
She pulled out several bottles—pink, peach, yellow, and blue—and set to work. At first, I thought she’d made a mess, but as she layered the colours, sunsets emerged. Then she added white accents for the waves and started to paint tiny people and palm trees in black.
“Wow. You’re really good at this.”
“I’ve always loved art, and when I was working at Rubies, I trained as a nail technician in my spare time. One day I’d love to own a salon.”
“Why do you work at Java? Why not get a job in a nail bar?”
She shrugged. “Money. I’ve got a few private clients, but nail girls don’t earn that much, and between Java and the restaurant, I can put a bit aside each month in my start-up fund. I tried looking for investors, but it’s tough out there at the moment. And nobody wants to rent a store to a girl with no business experience and no security deposit.”
“It’s a great goal. And let me know if you need help with a business plan. I was a business major before I dropped out.”
“You’d help? I’d love that.” She made a face. “I did art history. I enjoyed the studying, but it’s not much use in the real world.”
“Sure. We could start tomorrow?”
“I have a couple of manicures to do in the morning, and then I’m working at the restaurant in the evening. How about Saturday?”
“It’s a date.” I sat back and sighed, resting my finished hands on the arms of the chair, fingers spread. “I need to find another source of income as well.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I’m not sure. I always wanted to manage a business. Maybe a spa, or a restaurant, or a bar. Somewhere that I’d enjoy going to work because all the customers would be having a good time. But I doubt that’ll ever happen.”
“Why not?”
“There are too many people out there who did manage to graduate from college.”
Imogen settled herself back on the sofa and began to paint her own nails, nestling the bottle of polish between her knees. “It might be difficult to get what you want, but never give up. Would you be interested in shadowing the manager where I work? You know, to get some experience? I could ask if you like. He’s nice.”
“You think he’d agree?”
“On a quiet day, maybe. Like a Sunday or Monday. Not Friday or Saturday nights—the place is packed then.”
“I’d like that.”
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“Then I’ll talk to him.” She reached over and patted my arm, careful not to touch her nails. “You’ll make it; don’t worry.”
How I wished I had her confidence.
With Imogen out on Friday, I had a little time to reflect. Apart from Oliver popping up at awkward times, my move back to Richmond had gone better than expected with my new job and a comfortable home. And best of all, I’d made a new friend.
I didn’t click with many people, not in the way where I knew they’d be a friend for life, no matter what shit got thrown at us. I first got that feeling from Mason, then Chrissie, and now from Imogen. It was as if we’d met years ago rather than days.
And heaven knew I needed a friend like that.
I tried to make myself useful by giving the apartment a clean, which only made me think back to the way Chrissie and I would do anything possible to avoid household chores. We used to kid around and pretend one day we’d get a housekeeper, but we never made that much money.
And now it looked as if I never would.
Once I’d finished clearing the last bits from my room, which involved six trips to the communal dumpster and a slightly twisted ankle, I flopped back onto the sofa. It was officially movie time.
Only Imogen had other plans. No sooner had the opening credits rolled, when my phone rang.
“Stef! Thank goodness you picked up. Are you at home?”
“I’m watching TV.”
“I might have a better offer for you.”
“Really?” For a moment, I thought she meant another nightclub, then I remembered she was at work. Good—I couldn’t take another hangover like Wednesday’s.
“You said you wanted extra money, right?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Well, Veronique called in sick, and Louis can’t get hold of anyone to cover. So I thought of you. How about it?”
“You mean waitressing?”
“It’s not much more difficult than Java, and I’m sure Louis would take it easy on you. Plus if you want him to agree to the work shadowing, working this evening would give you a good chance to meet him.”
Part of me groaned. The last thing I wanted to do on this chilly Friday night was carry plates of overpriced food around, but Imogen was right—the opportunity was too good to pass up.
“Okay, I’ll do it. But what should I wear? And where’s the restaurant?”
“Oh, thank goodness. Louis’s gonna love you. I’ll meet you by the bus stop on Juniper and show you where to go. Just call when you’re about to arrive, and I’ll come out. And we all wear a white shirt with a black skirt. There’s spares in my closet if you don’t have anything suitable.”
“I’m sure I do, but thanks. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Apprehension mixed with excitement as I pulled on a pair of pantyhose, careful not to snag them with my fancy nails. At the beginning of the week, I didn’t have a job, and now I sort of had two. Good thing I’d taken a shower and blow-dried my hair this afternoon, because it meant all I needed to do was dress in appropriate clothes and leave. Things like that were important when you got paid by the hour.
And Imogen said the restaurant sometimes had celebrities visit. Armand Taylor a couple of months ago, if that was to be believed, although I couldn’t fathom why Hollywood’s biggest heart-throb would have wanted to visit Richmond. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if I’d see anyone interesting.
The bus ride took twenty minutes, and the heater was broken. By the time I got to the stop, my teeth chattered due to an unseasonably chilly evening. I glanced up at the sky and saw the stars twinkling down at me. On nights like this, I liked to think Chrissie and my daddy were up above, lighting up each other’s lives.
As promised, Imogen was right there when I stepped onto the pavement, arms wrapped around herself as her breath misted.
“Hurry up. It’s so cold out here.”
I didn’t need to be told twice, and a minute later, she cut down an alley and motioned me through a side door that she opened with an electronic pass, straight into a bustling kitchen. At a counter, a small blond man in chef’s whites waved his hands while he chewed an assistant out in a very French accent for burning something or other. What had I gotten myself into?
Imogen must have understood my worry, because she gave my arm a squeeze. “Just ignore Gaston. He’s always like that, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. He just cares about his restaurant and wants it to run well.”
“Gaston’s the owner?”
“Yes.”
“I guess it’s good he cares.”
Even so, I made a mental note to stay out of Gaston’s way. Getting yelled at in front of everyone wasn’t my idea of fun.
“And this is Jean-Luc.”
A smiling man with dimples glanced up from a row of tiny cakes decorated with gold leaf, then leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks.
“No hands while I’m preparing food. Lovely to meet you, chérie.” Then to Imogen, “I’ll save one of these for you later.”
Imogen giggled then led me past rows of counters and ovens to a tiny office, where a dark-haired man in a suit sat at a cluttered desk. “This is Louis, the manager.”
Louis skirted past piles of brochures and paperwork to shake my hand. “Thanks for helping out at such short notice. It’s a full house tonight.”
“It’s always good to be busy.”
He grimaced. “Usually I’d agree with you, but Scott Lowes just turned up with his wife, and the paparazzi keep trying to sneak in.”
“Scott Lowes? No way.”
“Lovely guy, but the circus that follows him around always makes life difficult. Don’t worry, though—we’ll keep you away from all that as it’s your first night.”
Chaos or not, I couldn’t help being disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see a man I’d drooled over so many times on the big screen. “What would you like me to do?”
“I thought you could look after the private dining room. It’s only eight guests, and they’re having some sort of business meeting. They should be easy enough to look after, and they’ve already ordered. Just take in their meals, keep their drinks topped up, and clear away the dishes.” He handed me a small black box. “Clip that to your waistband and stand outside the dining room door. If they want something, it’ll vibrate. Otherwise, don’t go in without knocking.”
A waitress poked her head around the doorjamb. “Louis, a photographer just shoved his way inside. Can you help?”
“Excuse me, I need to go. Good luck.”
This place was a heck of a lot different from Marnie’s Diner, and a summer working there plus my short stint at Java was the sole extent of my waitressing experience. The Daily Grind didn’t count since I’d rarely left the counter. Still, Chrissie always used to tell me to “fake it till you make it,” and once again, I took her words to heart.
“Shall I show you where the dining room is?” Imogen asked.
I took a deep breath. I could do this—I had to believe that.
“Sure.”
CHAPTER 14
I COULD HEAR the bedlam coming from the front of the restaurant as Imogen led me to a door at the back. When I was a little girl, I’d dreamed of being a movie star, but if this was their reality, I was glad I’d grown up a nobody.
“Just wait here until they call you,” Imogen said, pointing at a spot next to an ornamental tree. “It’ll be easy. You’ll see.”
She’d already set me up with a pad and pen, plus a copy of the menu to read through, although she said most of the food required Google Translate to interpret. Now I was on my own.
While I waited, I took in the corner of the dining room I could see from my sentry post. Artfully placed screens gave the illusion of privacy and meant my attempts to catch a glimpse of Scott Lowes were foiled. Plush furnishings absorbed most of the conversation, and the black-and-white décor was set off by silver accents that reflected glimmers from the chandeliers above. The understated elegance scared me. What if I dropped a plate? Or sp
illed a drink? What if…?
I jumped as the box on my hip buzzed, but I quickly swallowed down the lump in my throat. Here goes nothing.
The door wasn’t as heavy as it looked, and it swung both ways, making it easy to carry food through. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Whoever designed this place had obviously paid attention to detail.
As the door closed behind me, I got my first look at my customers for the evening. Eight men in suits, ranging from their mid-twenties to sixty at a guess. Seven corporate clones. And Oliver freaking Rhodes.
I’m sure every drop of blood drained out of my face at the sight of him, and I certainly swayed on my feet. He, on the other hand, didn’t blink, just looked down at the black box in his hand.
“If I’d known this would summon you, I’d have pressed it sooner.”
The rest of the men tittered, and I wanted to sink through the floor. Right after I’d impaled Oliver’s testicles on an ice pick.
But I wasn’t rich enough to allow myself that luxury.
Instead, I forced a smile onto my unwilling face and met his eyes. “How can I help?”
He glanced at the wine list in front of him. “Could you bring us a couple of bottles of the Chateau Musar?”
“Certainly. Sir,” I added as an afterthought.
He raised an eyebrow, then started a conversation with the man next to him. I was dismissed—a feeling all too familiar.
The buzzer went off a dozen more times that evening. More drinks, clear the plates, more drinks, take the dessert order, more drinks, clear another pile of plates, more drinks, more drinks, more drinks.
At least there was plenty to watch as I maintained my vigil beside the door. First, a man proposed to his girlfriend with the ring in a glass of champagne. A little cheesy, but cute, at least until she choked on it. A doctor dining two tables over gave her the Heimlich manoeuvre, so at least she got to enjoy dessert. And she still had a better evening than the couple at the table in the corner. The man’s other girlfriend called while he visited the bathroom, and the ensuing argument was something to behold. Louis had to ask them to move it to the street because the other diners were looking a tad uncomfortable.
