He shrugged a shoulder casually, watching as I added cream and sugar to my coffee. "I am remodeling my apartment," he supplied and despite myself, I was intrigued.
"Looking for some ideas?" I asked, thinking his taste would be better served looking at a S&M toy catalog. Walk in the front door to a sex swing and chains on the wall. That seemed more his style than the clean lines and fabric suggestions in the magazine in front of him.
"Are you offering your professional services to me, Cordelia Cameron?" he asked and my name felt entirely too intimate on his lips.
Ha. Fat chance. "I was talking about your magazine," I said, holding mine up to him. "So that's why you're at the inn?"
"Yeah," he said, resting his arms on the table and I fought to keep my eyes on his face. I really wanted to get a better look at the tattoos. "It's taken a lot longer than I had planned on. A lot of technical issues. So far the only room I've gotten done is the bathroom."
"Do the kitchen next. Get the worst rooms out of the way first. From there it will all be smooth sailing."
"That was the plan," he said, nodding. "From the looks of the sitting room, you and Em haven't come to any kind of agreement on... anything yet."
"Yeah... no," I said, already dreading another day of trying not to get into an argument with her. I mean... how hard was it to pick a damn color scheme? "Emily has been..."
"A raging bitch?" he suggested, smiling kindly. The way a big brother or old friend might do.
"I was going to say difficult."
"But my words are more accurate," he chuckled.
"Well... yeah," I admitted, praying he wouldn't repeat this conversation to her.
"She's really not that bad," Dane said, holding his coffee out for a refill as the waiter passed with a pot. "This inn is her baby. She gave James a hell of a time at first too."
"It's hard to imagine anyone giving James a hard time," I said, thinking of his happy, jovial nature. "He's so... light hearted and charming."
"Someone has a crush," he said, raising a brow.
"Not at all," I said, but knew that I had maybe nurtured the slightest bit of attraction to him at one point. That was a long time ago.
"Look, Red is only going to push at people to see if they push back. She's a hardass and she likes to get her way. So don't let her."
"That's kind of hard since I work for her."
"You work for EM Corporation," he corrected. "And you're the professional designer, not her. So push her. She'll get her panties in a bunch and you'll probably argue, but then you'll at least win her respect and she'll be a helluva lot easier to deal with in the future."
"You seem to know her well," I said, cringing inwardly. That sounded like I was prying.
"Better than most," he hedged for a second, looking around the room. "Em and I have been friends for a long time. And after we were friends we were... more. Then we weren't either for a while. Now we're friends again."
I nodded, thanking the waiter as he handed me my food and scurried off. Dane reached across the table, taking one of the fat, powder-covered pieces of bread and biting into it.
"Really?" I asked, feeling myself smile slightly.
"Yup," he said.
"Your table manners are atrocious," I said, swirling syrup over the rest and carefully cutting them into bite sized pieces. I looked up at him, noticing the raised brow, the light in his eyes. "What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. You're very... precise."
"You make that sound like an insult," I said, feeling my shoulders push back. I was precise. To the point of being anal about even the smallest things. But I had always sort of taken pride in that. It made for a good business owner and employee, a desirable tenant, a fastidious friend.
"Relax, baby... it's just an observation," he drawled out slowly, still watching me.
I knew that tone. That "don't be offended, but..." tone. It was an insult. He just didn't want to admit it. I pushed my plate to the side and settled my magazine on the tabletop, looking down and pointedly ignoring him as I ate. Just because we were sharing a table didn't mean we had to share conversation. And if he kept talking, I was just going to get more and more insecure which would make me hate him all the more. It was a lose-lose situation to communicate with Dane Broderick.
"Instead of ignoring me," he said and I could feel his eyes even without looking up, "you could tell me what you really want to say. I'm a big boy. I can take it."
"What's the point of repeating it?" I said, reaching in my pocket and putting money on the table. I stood, reaching to grab my magazine when his hand clamped on top of mine. I felt the shock of sensation shoot all the way up my arm, his huge hand swallowing up mine, making it completely invisible under his.
"Repeating what, princess?" he asked, the teasing smile gone and an eyebrow quirked up, like he really wanted to know.
It was the "princess" that did it. I hated it. I hated the implication that went along with it. Like I was haughty and prim and proper and stodgy.
"Fine," I said, looking him in his disturbing golden eyes. "You're an asshole," I said, ripping my hand out from under his and walking quickly away.
His chuckle followed me all the way into the hall.
"Augh!" I groaned, kicking the back of the chaise lounge in the sitting room.
"You're in a good mood," Emily said from behind me.
When I turned and saw her collecting up the fabric samples I had painstakingly poured over for hours the day before, and dispose of them back into my caddy, I just lost it.
Blame the lack of sleep, the sexual frustration, the arrogant jerkoff I shared a wall with.
Blame me for just being some uptight bitch... but I went absolute batshit crazy on pretty, opinionated, pain in the ass, redheaded Emily Brennan.
Six
Cordelia
I walked down Main Street two minutes after five PM. Which was the earliest possible time I thought it would be acceptable to go where I was going. To the bar. To get completely trashed. That was the kind of day it was.
Emily had stood there dumbfounded for a long time, arms down at her sides as she listened to me rant and rave about how unreasonable she was being, what a royal, obnoxious pain in my ass she was. She let me yell and pace and vent until all the anger was spent. Until I turned back at her, my cheeks red with mortification, a mouth full of apologies ready to trip off my tongue. Because no matter how much I was hating working with her, I really wanted the job. I wanted the spread in the decorating magazine. I wanted the pride of such a huge job accomplished.
"You finished?" she asked, sounding murderous, her arms crossed over her chest.
"Emily... I'm so..."
Then the sound of her laughter cut me off. She bent forward, gasping for breath as I looked at her like she had sprouted another head. Was she laughing because she thought it was ridiculous for me to even try to apologize for such a tirade? Had I completely gone off topic and said something absurd?
I think I had like... blacked out in my rage because I honestly couldn't remember anything that I had said beyond the "You know what?" I had started screaming with.
"Feel better?" she asked, swiping at her eyes.
"That depends," I said, feeling like I was going to be sick all over my own feet.
"On?"
"On if I'm fired or not," I admitted.
"Well," Emily said, pausing and making me genuinely worry. "You know what? I think we will both work better together if we are honest with each other."
"I... agree."
"Good." She smiled. "I think everything you have brought to me is boring," she shrugged.
"Boring?" I had given her so many different colors and patterns. Nothing was similar to the next idea.
"Yeah, boring. It's all too careful, too much like a floor room in a department store. Where are your personal touches? How about you stop trying to give me the plans you think you should, and give me some that you actually lik
e?"
"I can... try that," I told her, but it felt like a lie. I was a good designer. I had an eye for things that went together, even things that didn't seem like they should. But she was right. I had poured over so many magazines and Pinterest boards and design websites that I was honestly not sure that anything was really even my own idea anymore.
"Good. We will reschedule when you have some of your own ideas," she said and rushed out, a flurry of restless energy.
I went back to my room and looked through paint tiles and fabric swatches until they all started to blur together. I felt frazzled and unsure of myself. Which wasn't an altogether foreign sensation in my personal life, but it was wholly new in my professional one. If there was one thing I felt like I usually got right, it was work. I threw all my crap to the foot of the bed and grabbed a book off the nightstand, trying to lose myself in some other world for a while. But after ten minutes, rereading the first page five times and still not having a clue what it was about, I threw that down with the other sources of
my frustration.
I thought about it and discounted the idea ten times over before I finally grabbed my wallet and headed out the door. From what I heard, there was only one place in town to get a drink. That meant I would have to deal with someone I really, really didn't want to deal with. But, I figured that after a few rounds... even Dane Broderick might be tolerable.
The outside of the bar was dated, brick and an ancient sign, dirty windows. But the inside was freshly remodeled. And it was refreshingly well done. Where most bars choose to remodel to a modern, streamlined black and white sort-of design, this bar was fully redone in a very appropriate rustic design. The floors reminded me of the inn, wide-planked, worn but in a charming way. The walls and ceiling that had, no doubt, been there a few weeks ago were gone, exposing the beautiful wooden beams and brick. The bar itself looked new, wooden, the same color as the floor and the walls and it was lined with bar chairs that had actual backs for comfort. There were round tables with two or four chairs around the room, the surfaces boasting new but faded looking Stars Landing welcome signs.
It was perfect. Clean. Rustic, but upscale. Men would see it as a casual watering hole, but women would be equally comfortable.
I took a deep breath, seeing Dane behind the bar at the far end chatting up two barely-legal girls who were giggling at everything he said. I made my way quickly toward the other side of the bar where a younger bartender was standing and ordered myself two shots of tequila.
I had never been a big drinker. But when I did it, I did it hard. That meant I usually end up with my head in a toilet or with such an epic hangover that I don't feel the need to have another drink for another six months. Such was my relationship with alcohol.
I threw back the two shots quickly, sitting down in the corner where the bar met the back bar, hoping that I could stay at least somewhat hidden from Dane's view until the booze started to kick in.
I grabbed the cocktail menu off the bar just to have something to look at so random people wouldn't feel the need to strike up a conversation with me. I felt the presence of the bartender and tapped the bar next to my shots. "Two more and a gin and ginger," I said, already feeling the nice tingling in my lips from the tequila.
"Big drinker, huh?" A familiar voice asked, sounding at once curious and surprised.
I glanced up, rolling my eyes. "More booze," I said. "Less you." Then I looked back down at my menu.
"Lime and salt?" he asked as he grabbed for a bottle from the back bar and poured into fresh shot glasses.
"What am I... a teenager on spring break?" I asked and I heard him chuckle.
The shots were pushed toward me and I reached for one. "Gin and ginger is an unusual choice."
"Unusual? What would be... usual? A cosmo or a bay breeze?" I asked, looking up with a smirk. Alcohol made me mouthy. It slowed down the rapid fire anxious thoughts and let my natural quick wit surface. With perhaps more snark than was necessary. "Just because I'm a girl, doesn't mean I need to drink like one."
"I respect that," he said, squirting the soda gun into the rocks glass he had already filled with too much gin.
I took my other shot, pushing the empty glasses to the end of the bar and reaching for the buttons on my cardigan. I was hot.
"Tequila makes your clothes fall off, huh?" he asked, watching me. My hands stilled for a second on the last button, surprised. "That's a thing they never tell girls about tequila," he smirked. "We prefer that you don't catch on so we can enjoy the show."
I shrugged out of my cardigan, putting it on the back of my chair and enjoying the feel of the cool air on my over heated skin. My white tank top dipped too low in front and my breasts were practically spilling out over the bodice. Dane's eyes dipped down automatically and I felt myself roll my eyes at him. "Typical," I grumbled.
"Hey you're the one who whipped them out," he shrugged.
"Go back to your little chippies at the end of the bar and leave me alone."
"Alright," he said, surprising me. "But nurse that drink. You're gonna be flat on your ass if you're not careful."
I wanted to rebuff him, but I knew he was right. Besides, he was walking away. The last thing I needed was to draw him into some kind of argument that I was bound to lose. I just wanted to loosen up and forget about the frustration of the day that was bound to cost me another precious night of sleep if I didn't find a way to let it go. At least for a few hours. Then I could drag myself back to the inn, too drunk to care if Dane had an entire orgy in the next room.
Forty minutes later, I was dancing to a song that was never meant to be danced to with a man old enough to by my father who kept snaking his hands around my hips. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was the light, swirly feeling I had in my head, blocking out all the insecurity and doubts, blurring the memory of all the awful things I said to Emily, making me feel like less of a failure for not being able to find my own personal style.
"You're new around here," the man said, slurring his words like he had been drinking for a lot longer than I had.
"Mmmhmm," I said, raising my hands up over my head and swirling my hips to the new song.
"What do you think about coming with me to..."
"Dane Joseph Broderick," a loud female voice called, coming in the front door. My eyes drifted to her for a brief moment, feeling my dance partner's hands slide down to my ass quickly then moving away. She was middle aged with a solid frame and dark mahogany skin. Her long black hair was pulled into a braid down her back and an array of colored necklaces were hanging in different lengths down her chest.
"Mama Maude," Dane said, his voice sickening sweet, like he was a little boy in trouble and thought he could puppy-dog eye his way out of it. "I haven't done anything."
"That's exactly the problem," she said, looking at me with dark eyes I swear saw down into my soul as she passed. "What is this?" she asked, getting to the bar and waving a hand back toward me.
"That would be Cordelia Cameron, the new decorator for the inn," he said, his tone just shy of condescending.
"Don't sass me, boy," she said, grabbing my menu off the bar and swatting him on the side of his face with it. "She's two sheets to the wind with old alcoholic Al's hands all over her and you are just going to stand here like it ain't none of your business."
"It isn't any of my business," he said, not even glancing my way.
"You and me both know that ain't the way of it," I heard Maude say, but the words didn't mean anything to my happy mind. "Oh, come on. That just ain't right," she said as my partner's hands slid down to my ass and stayed there as we moved.
I giggled at it, full-on high school girl giggling as his hands squeezed my butt. It was hilarious to my drunk mind. I was a really ditzy, silly drunk. Everything was funny and carefree. Everything was a horrifying memory in the sober morning.
"Alright, Cassanova," Dane's voice said from behind my partner's shoulder. "I think it's time to
pay your tab and head home. You're wife is probably wondering where you are."
"Oh," Al fumbled, pulling away from me, looking guilty. "Right. Right," he said, stumbling toward the bar.
I felt my lower lip poke out into what I assumed was a first class pout. "You stole my dance partner. Now I have to dance alone."
He glanced back over his shoulder at Maude who paused her scolding of the very penitent looking Al to nod at him. He looked back at me with a small, utterly too charming smile and reached out to wrap an arm around my waist just as the song switched to something slow and sensual.
"You're dancing with me," I said dumbly, smiling up at him.
"Yeah, princess. I am," he said, winking at me.
"I hate that," I grumbled, leaning forward to rest my spinning head on his chest. Even in my heels, I was nowhere near his shoulder.
"Hate what?" he asked, his other hand running up my spine.
I rubbed my face in his chest, taking in his scent: some kind of woodsy soap and dryer sheets. "Being called princess," I admitted, closing my eyes.
"Too bad," he laughed.
I tried to pull away, but his arms kept me tight against him. Maybe I wasn't drunk enough to handle him after all, because I could feel my anger push past the nice fuzzy numbness inside. "Get off," I said, struggling.
"Nope. Apparently I need to protect you from all the local boozers."
"I don't need you for anything," I said, sliding downward, surprising him enough to get away. "Except for more shots. Actually," I said, waving at the other bartender. "I don't even need you for that. Take me to the tequila!" I called, dropping back down on my bar stool.
Dane shrugged at the Maude woman who was watching me down another round of shots then he went back to his pretty young things who were all too happy for his renewed attention.
"Girl you know this ain't gonna end well," Maude said to me, but the words were heavier with meaning than to just suggest my night of ill advised drinking. Then she clucked her tongue at me and headed out the door.
The Stars Landing Deviant Page 4
