What? No set-down?
Not sticking around to question it. I move into the lane—
“Hold up, Snow.” Maryanne smiles at her customer as he hands her a tip. “You can have my tables at ten,” she says over her shoulder. “I need to leave early.”
Wait—what? She’s offering the tables that pour in a shitload of tips? To me? Not one of the senior girls?
I take too long to respond, because Maryanne faces me, her expression pure exasperation. “Do you want ’em or not?”
“Yes. Of course. Thank you,” I say in stunted English.
I glance at Amber, who has paused in her conversation to gape at Maryanne. She snaps her mouth shut and walks over. “Uh, Maryanne, I can cover for you.” Her head twitches awkwardly as if she’s trying to refrain from cocking it like a pissed-off bird. She looks down at me, even though I’m several inches taller. “I have more seniority than Snow.”
Maryanne counts her cash and winks at another customer. “Thanks, but Gen’s got it.” She speeds off, her short legs pumping in her Payless Shoe Source heels—the same ones I’m wearing.
Amber’s mouth purses and she glares at me before storming off to Mont Belle Lounge.
That was—I don’t even know what. Unbelievable? Brilliant?
Maryanne was the first waitress to haze me with the Snow White nickname. Now she’s calling me Gen and giving me her tables? And putting Amber in her place …
Wow. Just—wow.
“She said that? Maryanne?” Nessa stares in disbelief after I relay the events.
“I can get someone else to cover her section if you think you’ll need me here tonight.” The bachelor party is rowdier than when I left. I don’t want to leave Nessa in the lurch, even if good tips are singing to me.
She shakes her head and waves me off. “I’ve got this.”
I pull in a few hundred dollars working Maryanne’s blackjack tables that night—my best score to date.
Let’s hope my luck holds in the race. There is a five-thousand-dollar pot with various lesser winnings. I’ll be lucky to finish the mudder, but if by some miracle I won something, it would go a long way toward building self-confidence and financial independence.
Chapter Ten
Half the businesses in Lake Tahoe use the word chalet in their title, even the rundown places. Cali and I dubbed our cabin, with its corrugated roof and seventies brown carpet, the chalet in honor of the outdated chalet strip malls. The Pinecone Chalet Business Center housing Sallee Construction doesn’t conform. The architecture has a log cabin feel, the building new and well-constructed.
Cali hasn’t returned from her mom’s and she’s ignoring my text messages. The truth about her ex came out wrong. This has gone on too long. I feel terrible and wish she’d talk to me.
I’m thinking about Cali and how to fix things when I push open the glass door to Sallee Construction.
A receptionist in a light green blouse, her blond, frizzy hair held back by shell combs, stares at her computer screen. “Oh—oh, no,” she says, and looks up abruptly. “What’s your astrological sign?”
I glance to my left and right. “Me?” She nods gravely. “Um—Virgo?”
Her mouth moves rapidly as she reads her screen. I glance at the insignia on the wall to make sure I’m in the right place.
Her face relaxes. “You’re fine this month. Just romantic stuff. But those Leos—” She blows out a breath and shakes her head. “—they need to worry. Not a good month to be a Leo.” Her face brightens in a way that’s almost comical after the horoscope drama. “So what can I do for you?” She takes a sweeping glance. “You here to see one of the boys?”
My face heats. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. I’m not here to see a guy, but her talk of romance throws me. “No. I’m here for … I’m participating in the Alpine Mudder. A friend said your company builds the obstacles?”
“We do.” She looks at me warily.
Shit, didn’t Zach say this would be on the down low? I should have followed up with him before I came. Why the hell did I think I could waltz in here and get information? I clutch my purse, suddenly second-guessing my rationale for coming. “Oh, well, I was hoping to get information—nothing top secret or anything—just the basics on what might be out there. On the course. With the obstacles.” I’m stammering. This is bad. I already sound guilty.
The receptionist breathes in through clenched teeth as if I’ve touched on a delicate subject. “Well—the person who usually handles acquisitions entered the race this year to raise money for his tribe. Conflict of interest.” She taps her lip. “I suppose John is handling this one. He’s the owner. Just a minute.” She picks up the phone receiver on her desk and punches a couple of buttons. “John, I have a girl here who wants to know about the mudder obstacles. Do you have time to talk to her?” There’s a short pause, then, “Okay, I’ll bring her back.” She sets down the receiver and rises. “I’ll show you to his office.”
“Wait. Um … what did it say? The horoscope. About my sign.”
My face heats another ten degrees. Astrology is crap—a couple of cat ladies spinning “predictions” in their den—but I can’t walk away without knowing what she meant about romance. That’s bad karma, right?
She nods, gaze serious, and wiggles back in her chair. “Let’s see.” She clicks the mouse to a past screen. “Here it is.” She purses her lips, and for some reason I’m sweating. I look around to see if anyone’s watching my idiocy.
“Virgo, you begin a new cycle. Your past influences your future and your future brings light to things once dark. To cope, be bold and achieve that which you most desire.” She looks at me expectantly.
“That’s it?” This is why I hate horoscopes. They use a bunch of words and never say anything. “What about the love part?”
Her eyes soften. “It’s always about love, isn’t it?” She stands. “Right this way. I’ll show you back.”
I shake off my confusion over the horoscope stuff and follow her. The room I’m led to could be a storage annex. Piles of unfiled papers and folders lie on every surface, especially the floor. My fingers itch to sort and organize … and open a window.
“Mr. Sallee?” the receptionist says. “This woman is inquiring about the mudder.” She smiles at me and walks away.
A black-haired man with tanned skin and weatherworn wrinkles around his eyes looks up from his computer, a bright look in his eye. “So, you’re doing the mudder this year?”
“Yes, sir. There were pictures on the website, but … I guess—um—I’m a little nervous about what I’ve gotten myself into. I was wondering if you have information you’re allowed to share that could help me prepare.”
This was a stupid idea. Of course this guy can’t help. Why did Zach send me here?
Mr. Sallee stands and walks around his desk. He’s tall, in jeans and a short-sleeved Sallee Construction collared T-shirt. He rubs his jaw. “Well, I’m not allowed to give out information on the location of the race, or really even obstacle specifications, but I could show you more pictures. I don’t see how that could hurt if they’re already providing them on the website. Might help relieve your nerves, or increase them.” He grins.
That doesn’t sound good, but yeah, more pictures might help.
We walk into a room with tables covered in blueprints, written-on whiteboards, and images taped to every surface. Mr. Sallee heads to a board in the corner with about fifty pictures of various mudder obstacles, the images taken from different angles. Pools of ice, narrow tunnels, and walls—tall walls.
“Not your typical race, is it?” He glances from the side.
“No.”
How am I going to do this? There’s the running portion, which will be easy, but the other stuff? Not so much. I’m athletic, but my upper body strength sucks. I can manage one, maybe two pull-ups. That’s pretty good for the average woman, but this race is crazy. I’ll need more than that to survive.
This isn’t going to build my confi
dence; it will crush it.
Mr. Sallee presses the corner of a picture that came loose, an image of electrodes dangling from a wooden beam. “Well, what do you think?”
I let out a sigh. “I’m screwed.”
He chuckles. “That bad?”
I nod, and a knock sounds behind us.
Lewis stands in the doorway, a shocked look on his face. He blinks, his gaze cutting to Mr. Sallee. “You wanted me?”
“Son, I was just showing this young lady the Alpine Mudder.”
Son?
Mr. Sallee glances over. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Gen,” Lewis answers for me. It’s a good thing, because I’m freaking out and the ability to speak escapes me.
What is Lewis doing here? Why didn’t Zach tell me … Wait—he may have tried. He was saying something before he had to return to work … Dammit!
Mr. Sallee looks between us, a curious expression on his face. “You know each other. Gen, how did you say you heard about us?”
“I work with Zach. He’s a friend of Lewis’s.”
Mr. Sallee nods and studies his son, who’s staring at me. “Well, if you want to learn about the race and how to survive it, there’s no one better to talk to than Lewis.”
Lewis leads me into his office, a cleaner, more orderly version of his father’s.
Mr. Sallee is Lewis’s dad. That night at the taco dinner, Zach said Lewis worked for his father’s construction company. And Zach knew Sallee Construction built the obstacles. Why didn’t I put it together? Because I was distracted by the horoscope thing and, before that, getting molested in a hotel suite.
Lewis sits behind his desk, tipping his chair back with an ease that belies his expression. “So what’s going on? Why are you doing the mudder?”
He could have opened with, “How are you?” but that would require a certain level of friendliness. I thought we’d gotten past the stoic Lewis. He hasn’t acted this way since before the club. And after what happened with Drake—
I ran from him when he tried to comfort me. How do I expect him to act?
Fine. I like this Lewis better; he’s easier to handle than the one who makes my mind go blank and my mouth gasp orgasmic moans.
“Because I want to. You have a problem with that?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
I sigh and look around. The degree of responsibility Lewis has within his father’s company is impressive for someone his age. Certificates of accomplishment I can’t read from where I’m sitting frame the walls, along with a whiteboard with dates and project headers.
“The Alpine Mudder is dangerous. You could get hurt.”
Is he serious? I squint and talk slowly, like I would to a small child. “That’s why I’m doing it.” I shift in my seat. “I don’t want to get hurt, but … I’m looking for a challenge.”
“Are you bored? You can’t find anything else to occupy your time?”
My mouth drops before I clamp it shut. What the fuck is his problem? Why is he being so rude? “No.”
He stares and his eyes dip a fraction before skipping back up, as if he won’t allow anything beyond eye contact.
That makes it easier. Better if he’s not interested.
His gaze narrows. “Why are you really doing it?”
I shift in my seat. He’s better at this stare-down stuff than me. “Everyone thinks they can trample me. That I’m weak and vulnerable. I’m not.” Or at least, that’s what I’m proving. I let out a sigh. I didn’t want to get into this with him. “Look, forget about it. I’ll find another way to train for the race.” I stand and walk to the door. This town is too small. I hate that I run into Lewis everywhere.
“Wait.”
My hand is on the knob and I’m not letting go—it’s my escape—but I look over my shoulder because I can’t help myself.
“I could … help you. Train, that is.”
What? Him?
No way.
“Zach and a few of us did the race last year. We’re training together again this year. Adding you to the group is no big deal. It would be better if you were a part of a team. People who race alone don’t finish. Especially girls.”
My back stiffens and I breathe in, eyes flaring.
He smiles.
He knew that would piss me off. Damn him.
Does he know I can’t back down from a physical challenge? It’s not possible. Not in my nature. And I want to finish the race. Well, I’d like to win the money, but I’ll settle for finishing and building that self-confidence Nessa mentioned.
I’ve never had brothers, or close guy friends. Maybe a bunch of adrenaline junkies will help with my confidence around men … but I can’t train with Lewis. That’s a recipe for disaster.
“Okay.” What the hell am I saying?
“Okay?”
“When do you want to train?” I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. It was the challenge he threw down, that’s all.
He lets out a deep sigh and shifts in his seat, pulling out his phone. He searches the screen for a few seconds and looks up. “Tonight. I’ll meet you at your place at six thirty. Wear running shoes.”
My car is back from the mechanic. Lewis’s friend didn’t charge much to fix the electrical problem. I don’t need a ride, but I guess I don’t know where we’re going. Is this really happening? I’m spending time with Lewis?
Even with his return to surly stoicism, the thought of being alone with him causes flutters in my belly. I have serious issues.
I’ll wear my running shoes, along with saggy-bottom running shorts, my hair in a sloppy ponytail, and no makeup, not even lip balm. Training with Lewis will be fine. I’ll be sweaty and ugly and he’s returned to his aloof self. I can handle this.
“And Gen—”
I stop and glance before walking out the door.
“When people are cruel, no one is to blame but them.”
My back stiffens. It scares me how much he knows, and how easily he reads the rest.
He may be right about Drake, but I could have spoken up for myself or fought, and I didn’t.
Chapter Eleven
“Let’s stop and cool down,” Lewis says a block from my place.
We ran five miles. I’ve been running several times a week since Cali and I moved to Tahoe. I’ve acclimated to the altitude, so the run was pleasant.
Beads of sweat work their way down the smooth lines of Lewis’s brow, but he’s not breathing heavily either. He lifts the bottom of his T-shirt and wipes his forehead.
I trip on the asphalt.
Shit. I hop a couple times to make it look like I’m loosening up.
We ran for forty-five minutes without incident, but Lewis pulls up his shirt, revealing a muscled chest and stomach, and my brain spasms. I saw him shirtless at the Beacon, but the sneak peek is entirely too sexy. Why did I think I could train with him?
“You’re a runner,” he says. “We’ll only use it to warm up if you’re running on your own. I’ll show you muscle-building exercises before I leave. Your backyard open?”
I nod and we head inside my house. I grab bottles of water and lead Lewis out back. He drops the duffel he pulled from his truck and it lands with a thud and a poof of powdery soil.
He takes a gulp of water and screws the cap back on, looking me over. “You have a sports bra on under that?”
Where’s he going with this? My extra-large T-shirt covers me from neck to thighs, stopping just above the bottom of my boxy running shorts. The sleeves bag out to my elbows. Attractive. “Yeahhh,” I say hesitantly.
“Can you take off your shirt?”
“What?”
He stares impatiently. “I’m showing you exercises. I need to make sure you’ve got the posture and movements correct so you don’t hurt yourself. I can’t do that if you’re covered in a sack.”
My mouth parts. Is he saying he noticed my effort to look shitty and he doesn’t approve?
I whip off my top and glar
e. “Better?”
His jaw tightens. He grumbles something I can’t decipher and reaches for his duffel. “Spread your legs shoulder-width apart.”
Something about him telling me to spread my legs in his smooth, rumbly voice sends a shiver down my back, which I ignore, ’cause it’s not helping. I do as he says and he hands me two seven-pound weights. He grabs another pair and executes a basic shoulder exercise. I’m transfixed, watching the muscles along his arms ripple.
He nods. “Your turn. Keep your biceps level.” Lewis moves in front of me, feet spread until his eyes are nearly even with mine. Wide palms lightly cradle my elbows as I repeat his example, his fingers warming my skin.
Wafts of aftershave and Lewis hit me. My movements falter. I breathe deeply, but that makes it worse. My arms still. I stare at his chin because I can’t look higher; his fathomless eyes are a dangerous place.
Lewis slides his hands off me and steps back, as if easing away from a feral animal. He crouches on his toes, watching me. “One set of twenty.” His voice is a touch unsteady.
I need to get my mind off this tension between us. Lifting my arms the way he showed me, I say, “I met your dad. What’s your mom like?”
His eyes follow the exercise. “Feisty. Smart. Runs the household.”
I exhale and repeat the movement. “Not your dad?”
He chuckles sardonically. “No. My dad can be scattered, organization-wise. But they’re good partners. My mom does the bookkeeping for the business. She’s just—you know—a strong woman.”
I swallow, my next rep less steady. I don’t often exude the strength he describes in his mother, but I feel it. I’ve just kept it locked away. “I think I’ve got this. What’s next?”
He shows me four more exercises to build upper body strength, his steady gaze as I practice driving me nuts. Does he have to do that? I’m in a sports bra, which pretty much reveals everything, but he’s not even staring at my boobs. He’s looking at the motion, my face, my eyes. There’s definitely something there—like he’s seeing something not obvious from the outside.
I don’t know why that notion stirs something in me.
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