by Devney Perry
“O-okay.” She propped the broom against a stool. Two seconds later, it slid off the rounded edge and smacked into the floor.
Christ. Maybe she hadn’t been the one to sweep earlier. Maybe one of the kids had done it for her.
“Sorry,” Sofia muttered, dropping down to her knees. Then with both hands, she scooped up some shells.
My chin dropped as she stood and carefully walked them to a garbage can at the end of the bar, losing a couple as she went. She tossed the pile in and then scurried back to the pile, bending to pick up more.
I don’t know how to sweep.
That’s what she’d told Thea, and it hadn’t been a lie.
I put down my knife, wiping the lime juice on my jeans as I walked over to the supply closet. I opened the door and grabbed the dustpan and small brush, then took them over to Sofia.
She was still kneeling on the floor, picking up shells one by one and putting them into her palm.
“Here.” I bent down, setting the edge of the dustpan next to the remaining pile. Then I used the brush to demonstrate what to do.
She dropped the shells in her hand in the pan and hung her head. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Don’t say that,” I snapped, again harsher than I’d meant. Hearing her run herself down was worse than seeing her cry.
“Sorry.”
“Forget it,” I muttered, sweeping the shells into the pan.
“I’ve never done this before. Any of this. Unless it involves shopping or makeup or my hair, I’m basically useless.”
I huffed and positioned the dustpan. Sofia’s eyes were on the floor, her chin dropped to her chest, so I hooked my finger under it and tipped her head back.
The minute her doe eyes met mine, my heart squeezed.
Those crying eyes.
They were going to ruin me.
Sofia’s eyes were a kaleidoscope. Every piece of happiness or shred of pain, she spun for the world to see in those chocolate pools. She didn’t keep anything for herself, no secrets or hidden agendas.
Her eyes were so full of hopelessness at the moment, I’d do anything to make that look go away.
Letting go of her chin, I slid my palm up her face. Her breath hitched as a firestorm ran up my arm.
Why was I touching her?
I didn’t drop my hand.
The heat from my touch colored her cheeks, and her chest heaved underneath that flimsy sweater. Her pink tongue darted out between her lips, wetting the bottom one as her eyes held mine.
The hopelessness was gone—I’d accomplished one thing at least. Except the lust in her gaze was exponentially more dangerous.
She was attracted to me. I knew it just like I knew how to mentally tally up three beers, a vodka soda and a shot of Jack. She was attracted to me, and I was attracted to her.
Panic sent my hand flying away from her face. I stood in a flash, staggering back a few steps and crunching a peanut shell under my boot. Then I turned and put the bar, my cutting board and knife between us.
“When you finish with the floors, you can take a bar rag and wipe off all the tables.”
“All right.” Sofia nodded and went back to work.
It took her three times as long as it would have taken me to finish sweeping the floors. I used up every shred of patience by not ripping the broom out of her hand and finishing the job myself. We hadn’t even opened yet, but my mood was shot by the time she walked over to the rag, pinching it between her thumb and index finger.
Her nose scrunched up at the scent of bleach on the white terry cloth. Holding it as far away from her clothing as possible, she walked over to a booth against the far wall and started wiping.
What the hell was taking her so long? Couldn’t she hustle it up? The last thing I needed was her taking an hour to clean the tables, not only because we were opening in ten minutes, but because as she bent over, the hem of her sweater rose up, giving me the perfect view of her ass encased in those hot-as-fuck leather pants.
I concentrated on the neon sign in the window as she cleaned, but my eyes kept drifting down to her backside.
When she left that booth for the next, she’d missed all four corners of the booth’s table and left a puddle in its center.
I frowned. I’d have to either redo it myself or teach her the right way to clean a damn table. My cock, which was begging to become Sofia’s babysitter, loved the idea of bending over her, covering my hand with hers and using long, sure strokes to clean that table.
“Shit,” I muttered, making an adjustment to my dick as I went around the bar. I walked to the booth, swiped the rag from Sofia’s hand and nudged her out of the way with my hip. “Like this.”
After cleaning the booth’s table and another one, I handed back the rag.
“Sorry.” Her eyes were full of tears again.
I didn’t comfort her this time. Instead, I strode out of the bar, down the hallway and straight into Thea’s office, where I took a red marker and circled January eighth.
Ten days.
It might as well have been a year.
Today had been the most humiliating day of my life. No contest.
Reading the magazine article had brought me to an all-time low. But after spending the day in the Lark Cove Bar with a gorgeous man who loathed everything about my existence, I’d found a new rock bottom.
It was here, on the floor by the dishwasher, where I was hunched over to pick up shards of broken glass.
“I’m sorry,” I told Dakota for the fifth time.
He threw a cracked glass in the large garbage can. It shattered against the glasses he’d already tossed in there. “Glass comes out of the dishwasher hot.”
“I know that.” Now.
“Open the door. Let it cool. Then take stuff out,” he snapped.
I stayed quiet but nodded so he’d know I’d heard him.
Dakota had ordered me to unload the dishwasher about five minutes ago. I’d opened the door and been immediately engulfed in a billow of steam. My makeup was probably running and the fine hairs at my temples were no doubt in frizzy kinks.
I’d batted the steam away then pulled out the top rack. Obviously, I knew the inside was hot because of the steam. But I didn’t realize the glasses would be scorching, not just warm.
I’d never unloaded a dishwasher before.
The instant my hand touched one of the pint glasses, my fingertips melted. I yelped and jerked my hand away, but as I was retreating from the dishwasher, my heel caught on one of the rubber floor mats.
I stumbled sideways and right into a neatly organized grid of clean glasses. My elbow caught four of them and sent them crashing onto the floor. Of course, they landed on one of the non-rubber-matted places and shattered instantly.
Dakota had cursed and then stomped over to help me clean them up. Correcting my mistakes was pretty much all he’d done today.
First it was the peanut shells. Then he’d taught me how to clean a table.
After that I’d learned that my way of dusting liquor bottles was wrong. My way of delivering the beer bottles he opened was wrong. My way of clearing the empty beer bottles was wrong too.
Everything I’d done today was wrong.
“Why don’t you take a break.” Dakota sighed. “I’ll finish this.” He walked away, leaving me still hovering over the floor.
I swiped my eyes dry so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering.
I’d been on the verge of a full-on meltdown all day, but somehow I’d managed to keep it in. I think the shock had made me numb to a degree.
I was the crier in our family. I cried even more than Mom had during menopause.
And my crying annoyed everyone.
Aubrey would purse her lips whenever I started to tear up. She’d tap her foot on the floor, like she was counting how many taps it would take me to pull myself together. That tapping always made it worse, knowing that my own sister didn’t care about my bruised feelings.
Logan would just clench his jaw or
shake his head. Dad would look up from his phone or computer then narrow his eyes, silently telling me to stop so he could concentrate on whatever email or message was more important than his daughter’s silly emotions.
Mom was the only one who didn’t make me feel awful for the tears, though she encouraged me to cry in private.
My family didn’t understand me. They didn’t realize I was softer than they were. I didn’t have an edge or a protective shell that made me tough. I was just . . . me. And when things got difficult, I cried.
It made me feel better.
But crying wasn’t allowed in this modern age when women were empowered to rule the world, when we were supposed to be made of steel and iron, stronger than the men who would hold us down if we showed a moment of vulnerability. In today’s society, a crying woman was just pathetic. I was weak. My tears were pitiful.
But could I stop them from springing up? No. Even as I willed myself to stay strong, the tears came of their own volition.
At least I was able to choke back the sob that wanted to work its way free.
I dried my eyes, taking a few deep breaths, then stood.
The man sitting on the other side of the bar a few seats down was staring. He looked to be in his late fifties, his brown hair streaked with gray at the temples. He’d sat witness to the entire dishwasher, glass-breaking fiasco.
And he knew I was about to lose it.
But instead of a frown or a roll of his eyes, he gave me a reassuring smile. “It’s just a couple of glasses.”
“Today’s not my day.” This year wasn’t my year.
“I’m Wayne.” He extended his hand. “I come in here about every day to say hello and drink a beer. I guess some would call me a regular.”
I shook his hand. “I’m Sofia. Sofia Kendrick.”
From an early age, I’d gotten in the habit of using both my first and last name with introductions. People in New York heard the name Kendrick and paid attention. Except . . . was it pretentious to add it when Wayne hadn’t offered his own?
“Kendrick. As in Logan and Thea Kendrick?” he asked.
I nodded. “Logan is my brother. I came out to visit them for New Year’s, but they actually just left on vacation. I’m here trying to, um . . . help at the bar while they’re gone.”
Behind the bar, Dakota walked by with the dustpan and brush. He made short work of the remaining glass bits on the floor then tossed them into the garbage. With another one of my messes corrected, he scanned the bar to see if anyone needed anything. Seeing as our few customers were happy, he turned without a word and walked down the back hallway again.
My gaze lingered on his long legs, the way his jeans molded to his thighs and the globes of his really, really nice ass. It was grossly unfair that I had to share my lowest of low days with a man who was so devastatingly handsome.
Dakota’s wide shoulders and towering frame filled doorways. His arms were so long he could reach the tallest liquor shelf, nearly to the ceiling, without a stretch. They reminded me more of wings than arms because he moved with such grace and silence. Even his thick-soled boots landed gently on the floor.
“So how long are you here?” Wayne asked.
“Ten days.” I tore my eyes away from the hallway where Dakota had disappeared. “I came out here for a last-minute vacation, so I don’t have a set schedule. But I’ll probably go home once Logan and Thea get back from Paris.”
“Good for you. I’m on vacation myself. I work as the chief maintenance officer at the school here in town. That’s a title I gave myself a few years ago, by the way. Thought it sounded fancy. Anyway, the kids are all on break so I’m enjoying some downtime. Gotta love vacation.”
“It’s the best.” I forced cheer into my voice, not wanting to tell him that I now considered vacation an evil word.
Taking one of the surviving pint glasses, I filled it with some ice. Then I went for the soda gun. I’d been studying Dakota today, not just because I found him so appealing, but so I could try and avoid embarrassing mistakes. Carefully, just as he’d done at least ten times today, I pointed the spout on the gun and pressed the white button for water.
It was stupid to feel relieved that I’d successfully filled a water glass. But today, I was taking whatever I could get. I stole three lime slices from the tray along the bar, plopped them in my water, then walked around the corner to sit on the stool next to Wayne.
My feet were killing me in these new snow boots. I was used to wearing heels every day but not actually walking around in them for hours on end. My driver, Glen, and my town car were never far away. When I shopped, I always had a nice place to sit and sip champagne whenever I needed to rest.
But today I hadn’t had a single minute to sit. I’d been following Dakota around and taking his orders ever since Logan and Thea had abandoned me here.
Five years ago, I would have sent a string of nasty texts to my brother, using shouty caps to tell him how this was ridiculous and unfair. I would have called one of my girlfriends and bitched about my sister-in-law tricking me into manual labor. Then I would have called Mom and cried, begging her to get me out of this situation.
Even a week ago, I would have called and grumbled to anyone who would have listened.
But a week ago, the magazine article hadn’t been published. I hadn’t become a tornado of self-doubt.
A week ago, I was still pretending that my life was perfect.
So instead of resorting to my old tactics, I was sticking it out. Thea had asked me to trust her, and I was trying my best. Besides, where else did I have to go? I was useless. I was a mockery. As miserable as I was, helping at this bar was better than going back to New York and listening to people snicker behind my back.
Montana was my sanctuary for the next ten days until the gossip storm blew over.
“Cheers.” Wayne lifted his glass full of Coors Light and Clamato, something I’d never heard of before.
I clinked his glass with my own and sipped my water, enjoying a quiet moment off my feet.
There were only two other people in the bar at the moment, a couple in one of the booths. Both were looking at their phones as the beers I’d brought them sat untouched, growing warm.
“How are you liking working here?” Wayne asked just as Dakota emerged from the hallway.
It was like he had a sixth sense that I’d been about to tell Wayne the truth. His eyes narrowed at my lips as he walked our way and the answer I was going to give Wayne—that I needed a Xanax—disappeared off my tongue.
“It’s been interesting. I’ve never worked in a bar before.” Or anywhere. “So I’m learning a lot.”
Like how to properly throw away a beer bottle. Even that simple job I’d failed.
Dakota had told me that instead of just tossing them into the garbage can, I had to empty out whatever was left, even if it was just backwash. Otherwise the garbage bag would get full of liquid and be a mess to toss in the Dumpster.
I’d also learned that when I delivered beer bottles, I was to use the stack of cardboard coasters, not the cocktail napkins. The coasters were free since some beer distributors had brought them in for promotion. The bar had to pay for the napkins.
I’d also learned that when you dusted liquor bottles, they had to be put back in the exact same place. Apparently, the seemingly random placement of bottles was anything but. Dakota had grumbled some colorful obscenities under his breath as he’d spent thirty minutes rearranging them after I’d mixed them up.
He’d been short with me most of the day. If I were in his position, I probably would have been short with me too. Still, it stung each time he snapped or barked an order. Not only because he was gorgeous and I was clearly driving him crazy, but also because each time it reminded me how foolish I must seem.
Dakota went to the dishwasher, slid out the top rack and pulled out two glasses now that they’d cooled.
“I can empty it.” I rose from my seat, but he shot me a look that sent my butt back onto the
stool.
“I’ll do it. Just . . . rest your feet.”
My shoulders fell. I’d hoped he hadn’t noticed my limping steps over the past hour. “Sorry.”
“Wear comfortable shoes tomorrow.”
I nodded and sipped my water, wishing it were vodka. I hadn’t brought any shoes along that didn’t have a heel.
I’d have to borrow something from Thea, though I already knew we weren’t the same size. I’d bought her a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps last year for her birthday. I’d never seen her wear them and now I knew why. Four-inch stilettos with beaded embellishments were completely unnecessary here.
Just like me.
“You look like you’re about to cry,” Wayne whispered, leaning in close. “Everything okay?”
I nodded, blinking away a fresh onslaught of tears. “I’m out of my element.”
“Ah, don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of things soon. You look like a smart gal.”
His words made me want to cry even more. How was it that a man I’d met just moments ago had such confidence in me? The people I was closest to didn’t think I’d ever amount to much.
“Excuse me.” I slid off my stool, ignoring the ache in my feet as I hurried behind the bar. As soon as I reached the hallway, I covered my mouth with a hand. The sob that had been bubbling up to the surface escaped, echoing through the kitchen as I burst through the door.
I stopped next to the table in the middle of the room and closed my eyes. Then I let the tears flow free.
The first wave had barely cascaded down my cheeks when a deep voice rang in the kitchen. “Oh, Christ.”
The annoyance in his tone was too much to take. I spun, my chin no longer quivering now that my temper was on the rise. “Do you mind? Can I just have a few minutes to feel sorry for myself? Or am I not doing that right either?”
His stoic and stern expression cracked. His eyes softened, and he shied back a step. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure my tears are silly to you.” I swiped at them and sniffled. “I know I’ve been an inconvenience today. But I’m not going to apologize anymore. Working here wasn’t my idea, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing. With anything. It’s all a mess. My life is a mess!”
