“Water with lemon, please,” Bess answered.
“I’ll take a beer on draft, whatever you have that’s local. And how about something to eat?” I said to the waiter and then turned to face Bess. “Do you like fried pickles? I have to admit, they’re a weakness of mine,” I asked her with a wink.
“Sounds great,” she answered with a small smile, and our server rushed off to pound our order into the computer.
“You know, it feels good to be back around here. I went to U of Pitt and from time to time, my fraternity would come up to the country and cause havoc. Hayrides and bonfires . . . Crap, it feels like forever ago,” I said, spewing off shit I never really discussed. Sitting up straight, I apologized for my walk down memory lane.
Bess sat there quietly, not offering much. She definitely didn’t mention going to Pitt herself.
“Well, there isn’t much to do around here,” she finally said softly. “So I can only imagine what a bunch of bored college guys could get into.”
“It is quiet. Do you like that?” I asked her while leaning in.
She opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by the arrival of our drinks.
I watched as she thanked our server, gifting him a big smile of gratitude, and I wasn’t sure if it was for bringing the drinks or for interrupting our conversation.
As the waiter turned to leave, I said to Bess, “Go on, you were going to say something.”
Focused on squeezing her lemon into her water, she kept her eyes on the glass when she said, “Yeah, I guess I kind of like it now. Actually, I took some classes at Pitt too. But I think this area suits me better.” She kept her gaze trained on the table, watching her own hand lift her water before taking a drink.
I took a long swig of my beer before answering. We were heading into the twilight zone, only Bess didn’t know it. I knew she went to Pitt and what happened when she lived on the college campus, but she didn’t know I knew, and that made me uncomfortable. My insides began to burn with anxiety, causing heat to travel up my throat, and I nearly sighed aloud with relief as the beer cooled the flames of embarrassment inching up my neck.
“Really?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
“Uh-huh,” she said with a nod.
“What a coincidence. Small world,” was what I said next. Why? I had no fucking idea. Maybe because I liked feeling uncomfortable and shitty? After all, that was my norm—feeling crappy.
I decided to move the conversation along and carry us out of dangerous territory. “Well, I have to say, I was dreading being here in the damp weather, but the good news is that it’s grounded me to my room. I’m getting a ton of work done without the distractions of living on the beach.”
“Oh, fun, I didn’t know.” Once again interrupted by a delivery, this time it was the pickles, Bess reeled herself in. “That must be nice being near a beach,” she offered as we helped ourselves to food.
Remembering why I was supposed to be here, I tilted my head toward the retreating waiter and asked, “So, are most of the servers friends? Do you all hang out outside work? What’s it like when you’re not at work? Are you a big happy gang?”
I took in the way her chest rose and fell beneath her long-sleeved black shirt. The outline of her bra was lace, her skin was creamy, and her breath was raspy when she answered. “Some of us. I’m actually close with a few girls on the housekeeping staff, but not many of the dinner servers because I’m usually gone by then.”
“Right. Thanks, by the way, for staying to join me,” I said with a full smile, leaning back in my chair and smoothing my hair out of my face.
I would never part with my longer, shaggier style. It was the only feature that said “bad boy” about me. Except I was never a rule-breaker growing up, other than when it came to my hair. Probably because my dad kept his hair long and I remembered playing with it as a kid.
My mane.
Lane the lion, Bess the lamb.
Pulling out of my memories, I focused back on the subject of my last thousand nights’ fantasy. “I guess you get in pretty early in the morning? I feel bad to have kept you here,” I said, then mumbled mostly to myself, “The request for an early dinner time now makes sense.” Mentally, I kicked myself in the ass for not realizing this woman had been at the hotel since before dawn.
“Yeah, I do,” she said after she took a sip of her water. “I get up pretty early to head over here. I guess that’s why I know most of the housekeeping girls. I never used to be a morning person, but I kind of like it now.” Her expression grew wistful as she added, “It’s peaceful waking up before everyone else, taking in the dew while walking my dog outside.”
Enthused at the prospect of something else we could chat about before pretending to talk about more hotel logistics, I leaned forward. “So you have a dog? What kind?”
“A Lab.”
Our server came back to clear the pickles and refill our drinks. While he was there I ordered a burger, and Bess went with a salad.
“Your dog must love running around in this cool weather,” I said when we were alone again.
“He does. Keeps me exercised,” she said, her features relaxing and softening when she spoke about her four-legged friend.
And that was the way the evening passed . . . with bullshit small talk about weather and morning dew, dogs, and hotel scheduling.
By telling a lie, I was on the dullest date ever with the only girl I ever wanted to win over. Except, it wasn’t a date. Starting with my little “business dinner” fib, I began a brand new bad habit of my own—deceiving young women. A habit I couldn’t change because I’d appear to be even a bigger asshole.
But I had no choice, so I spent the dinner perfecting Lane Wrigley, the overly involved businessman, getting to know Bess Williams, the unimpressed, fragile, mysteriously beautiful waitress, whose rapid breathing and racing pulse took my breath away.
AJ
Carefully maneuvering my truck through the slick mud, I left my construction site. After pumping up the volume on the rock music, I jammed the heat on full blast, my hands still cold from standing outside as I checked on the guys and went over plans with my foreman. I waved my hands in front of the vent, letting them warm a little, then waited a second to crack the window and light up before pulling out.
As I took a long draw on my Marlboro Red, I glanced back at the shopping center. It was going to be the biggest one in the area, and we couldn’t fuck up one square inch of it. It was a huge contract for me at thirty years old.
Fucking A.
It was nothing my company couldn’t handle. My fragile psyche was a different story, but no one would guess that by looking at me. To the casual onlooker, I was all brawn and rough flannel around the edges.
My pickup barreled out from the dirt road and I picked up speed as I hit the main highway, pulling into the diner for a quick cup of coffee a few moments later.
“Hey, Shirl, babe! How you doing today?” I called out over the bells ringing on the door.
“Hiya, AJ, honey!” she said back with a smile, tiny creases forming around her light green eyes, her laugh lines exaggerated. For a married middle-aged woman, she was still pretty smoking, even though she kept it all toned down. With her red hair tied back in a bun and a pencil stuck over her ear, she screamed small town. Although I knew there was more to her story, I just didn’t know what.
“You good?” I asked her with a knowing nod, reminding her that each day sober was a freaking God-given blessing. Despite all my outer bulk and glory, I was a sap on the inside, and the waitress with at least a decade on me knew it.
She gave me a soft, “Yeah,” as I sat down at the counter, smelling bacon from the fryer and cinnamon wafting from the pie case.
“Two coffees, okay, doll?”
“Two?” she asked with her eyebrow raised.
“I’m making a life change today,” I said with a wink.
Shirley turned toward the coffee machine, shaking her head and her tiny ass. “Oh, you
are?” She turned back toward me, placing the two Styrofoam cups in front of me before leaning back on the counter separating the dining area from the kitchen with her arms crossed over her ample chest.
“Yep, so how much do I owe you? I gotta get the hell out of here.” I didn’t want to get into any more of it with her.
“In this case, it’s on me, buddy.”
I threw a few bucks on the lime-green counter and hightailed it out of there, two cups of steaming coffee in my hands. But not without noticing the strange look pass over Shirley’s face. I sure as fuck didn’t have time to worry about that, though.
Driving past the WildFlower on my left, I glanced at the barren land on my right. Soon all that land would be scooped up with the little micro-economy the resort created around here. My mind wandered, imagining dollar bill signs, anticipating all the work I could bid on.
And then I thought about her. Bess had started coming to meetings again more regularly, and I knew there had to be something up, more than she was admitting, but I wasn’t going to push. It was my time to get a little closer to the brown-haired beauty, and that was exactly what I was going to do.
Blowing smoke out the window, watching it fade into the cold air, I thought that the rehab center should have known years ago that introducing me to Bess would be problematic. She was gorgeous, vulnerable, alone, and shit—gorgeous. With big round brown eyes framed with long, full chestnut hair, fear and vibrancy rolling off her in equal waves, she became mine that day.
She’d been sitting in the bay window, her long hair falling down over her thin arms, nearly hiding her tattoo. It was the last time I’d seen her wear a tank top. I couldn’t help but stare that afternoon at her soft eyes and weak smile, which were such a contradiction to the large eye inked on her arm with two teardrops falling from it.
For the last four years, I’d watched silently and patiently, waiting for the right moment to approach her, to make her aware that she was most definitely mine. And that she didn’t need to shed tears anymore.
Throwing the truck in park next to her house, I stepped out and waited for Bess to roll home from her shift. She was going through something and needed someone, and that someone was going to be me—like it had been every other time for the last four years. Except this go round, it would be with me as something more than just her sponsor, more than just a friend.
When the coffees were cold, I decided Bess wasn’t coming home after work, so I texted her.
ME: Hey, how you doing? I popped over to see you with coffee. You okay?
After waiting another ten minutes and getting no response, I left. When I got home, not really remembering how I drove or parking the car, I paced the hardwood floorboards of my house.
It wasn’t until after eight o’clock that night that my phone finally chimed.
BESS: Hey, sorry. Actually had something at work this evening. :(
ME: Work? What? You don’t work dinner. I was fucking worried.
BESS: Some stupid thing for management—nothing to worry about. Back to my regular routine tomorrow. Thanks for worrying, though. Night.
And just like that I was dismissed. Well, too fucking bad. I’d been waiting a long time to take the opportunity to claim what was mine, and it was in the palm of my calloused hands. No way I was going to let it slip away.
Bess
After tossing and turning for what felt like a million hours, I got up and walked a very disgruntled Brooks Bailey. My dog liked his rest. He’d been giving me dirty looks every time my knee made contact with his rib cage as I wrestled with the covers, and my emotions.
The moonlight lit my way down the hill to the lake. Brooks trailed along, sniffing, stopping to pee, rubbing up against my leg, welcoming a pat on the head. We didn’t need a leash. We had rescued each other and neither of us were going anywhere. Neither loyal owner nor adoring pet were in any position to ditch the life we’d made together. I was resurrected from the past; Brooks from the pound.
I was no stranger to insomnia. It had become a way of life for me in rehab without the aid of anything to lull my overactive brain to sleep, but this was a new brand of sleeplessness. A man had crawled beneath a layer of my skin, burrowed somewhere underneath my hardened shell of indifference, and I had no clue what to do with that.
Were there meetings for this sort of thing? If it were drugs or alcohol tempting me, I could call AJ or go to a meeting.
Ugh, AJ. What’s up with his popping by and bringing coffee?
But I didn’t have time to worry about him. Nor did I think there were support groups for dealing with being smitten with Lane Wrigley. Although, I was sure there was a very long string of us—women—probably each and every one of us a random, lowly hotel employee wishing and praying that he would take more than just a professional interest in us.
Coming to a stop, I settled on an old tree log about thirty feet from the stream and allowed the soothing sound of the rippling water to wash over me. It was chilly out today, and even tucked into an old sweatshirt with Sherpa-lined boots on my feet, a chill traveled up my spine. I felt coarse hair brush along my cheek as I lowered my head into my hands, and sensed my faithful friend sit down beside me.
At twenty-five and unattached, it wasn’t unusual that I was having these feelings—an inappropriate attraction to a man with power and money at work. After all, there was real blood running through my veins. My core heated at just the thought of the man and his ridiculously out-of-place messy black hair. And like that, my boots felt way too hot and my sweatshirt confining.
Tilting my head to the side, I leaned my cheek on my dog’s head and whispered my secrets in his ear. I couldn’t even say them out loud to an animal.
“Ugh, Brooks, why didn’t I think about this when I left rehab? Making a life beyond this meager existence? A life with love and men and sex?”
A lone tear made its way down my cheek, disappearing in black fur, but Brooks didn’t have any answers for me.
“It’s no biggie, Brooksie. He’ll be gone tomorrow, and we’ll be back to life as we know it. Just you and me and nobody else,” I said, more for my own peace of mind as I got up and walked home.
Feeling very much like my former hungover, tired, and strung-out self, I entered the WildFlower already dressed in my waitress uniform. In no mood to face May or anyone else who knew about my dinner meeting, I hurried to the kitchen and ducked my head to avoid chitchat with any of the other employees, certain the rumor mill was alive and well.
They were all staring at me.
Rushing into the kitchen, wishing for a quiet cup of joe and a buttery scone with Ernesto, I ran smack into a hard wall. A wall that went by the name Lane Wrigley, standing front and center in the middle of the kitchen, all wrapped up tight in a suit and tie with a big grin on his face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wrigley,” I muttered. Unsettled, I straightened my clothes and smoothed my hair from our collision, my body still burning from the briefest moment of contact. My emotions were a mangled car in a five-car pile-up or worse.
“It’s Lane, and no worries,” he said with playfulness flitting through his blue eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was actually getting ready to leave and wanted to thank you for your time.”
This was yet another version of Lane Wrigley, neither the ice-cold, all-business man I first saw at breakfast two days ago, nor the warm but consummate professional I had dinner with, but a more fun version disguised in another perfectly pressed suit.
“Um, it was nothing.” I waved my hand in the air while backing up a few inches, trying hard not to breathe in the masculine scent surrounding me. It was a high I didn’t think I could afford to enjoy.
Already turning and heading through the kitchen door toward freedom—the dining area—I skidded to a halt when Ernesto called out, “Um, Miss Bess, the restaurant isn’t busy at all. Why don’t you take a few of my fresh treats and coffee in the back for you and Mr. Wrigley? He can learn more about the hotel and how we operate in the restau
rant.” He motioned toward the overflowing baking sheets on the counter filled with fresh muffins, elaborately iced pastries, and mouth-watering scones.
“He probably doesn’t have time for that, Ern, but thanks,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat and knowing they were probably a bright shade of red, deeper than the cranberry filling oozing from the Danishes lining the baking sheet.
“Actually, I do,” Lane said. “I had to make some changes to my travel plans, so I’m flying a private charter home. They can leave when I want, and a pastry sounds great.” He walked toward the large tray of goodies set on the stainless counter, pretending to examine the sweets, but held my gaze in his peripheral vision.
“Good!” my meddling coworker interjected, then shoved a plate at Lane and me, instructing, “Take what you want and go.”
So, with a scone and a to-go cup of coffee in my hand, I led Lane back to the break room. I didn’t dare take a whiff of the cinnamon Danish in front of me for fear that Lane’s heady scent would fill my senses instead.
“Well, this is an unexpected surprise,” he said as he sat down at the large round table in the center of the room. He pulled out another seat and insisted, “Here, this one is for you.”
“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” I said. “They’re paying me to wait tables.” I took a quick sip of my coffee as I stood there, uncertain what I should do.
Lane took a deep swallow of his coffee and shook his head. “Ah, that’s some good coffee. Come on, I don’t bite. Sit.”
I did, setting my plate in front of me, unsure of where my appetite flew away to. The only hunger I felt was for the man in front of me. Watching his mouth, staring at him taking a large bite of his blueberry muffin, my own mouth watered, and it wasn’t because of the fluffy pastry.
When he finished chewing, he leaned in. “You’re still working right now, Bess, so relax. We’ll call this business—again.” He took another bite and added, “Shit, this is good! I haven’t had one of these in a long time. I wonder where I can get something like this in South Beach?”
The Crossroads Duet Page 4
