by Rush, Olivia
“Hey, uh—excuse me? Wait a second! I need to speak to the owner.”
“Flo’s the owner,” Barbie said, toying with the end of her straw poking out of a glass of diet soda. “And she’s busy. What do you need help with, Rebecca?”
Creepy as hell, but OK. “I’m afraid that’s between me and Flo. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“My name?” The blonde tittered and pressed her lips together. She pulled them apart slowly, pouting cherry red. “Well, I’m surprised you of all people don’t know it. It’s not really important, is it? Ha, I guess not.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Look,” the woman said and leaned in, fluttering too-long lashes. “I’m assuming by the way you’re dressed that you’re here for a job, right? Those tailored pants scream cheap office assistant. But this ain’t an office, and nobody needs your help. Save your little resume, trot off, and go do what you do best.”
I blinked at her. “Are all the people in this town mentally deficient?” I asked. “Or is it just you?”
“Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you. No wonder our doctor dearest likes you.”
My insides turned to ice. What the hell? How could anyone possibly know about that? We’d had sex…last night? No, yesterday afternoon, and it wasn’t like we’d done it in the damn town square. Besides, what the hell did it matter what I did in my spare time? “What is this, the Footloose town?” I looked around the place. No one else seemed to care what we spoke about or did—they were too into their food. “Are you about to spring that stiff upper-lipped pastor on me?”
“Look, chick, my point is you’re not welcome here. Not in this diner, at least. Flo doesn’t hire hoes.”
“Wow.” I blinked at her. “Just wow. Anyone ever tell you you should be a rapper?”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a no-good, gold-digging, home-wrecking ho?”
“I would say touché, but that wasn’t a good comeback,” I replied. I’d had just about enough of this. I’d come in here nervous and wound up verbally lambasted by Louisiana Barbie. “I’m done with you.” I waved over at Flo again. “Excuse me! May I talk to you for a second?” The redhead cast one disdainful look in my direction and shook her head.
“I believe that’s a no,” the blonde said. “That’s a no for now and forever, Becky with the bad hair. Get lost.” She flicked French-manicured nails at me and returned to her drink. Next to her, a tall guy with a slightly crooked nose but a stunning jawline leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Apparently, Louisiana Ken was in attendance too.
“Fuck,” I muttered, under my breath. This was clearly a bust. The nerves were gone, but so was my patience.
I resisted the urge to flip off the rude bar chick and headed for the door instead. I burst out into the sunshine, breathing hard.
Fuck. Double Fuck. Double-stuffed Fuckoreos. Nope, that’s not a thing.
This didn’t matter. There were other restaurants, other diners. I’d pick one of them and speak to the people in charge. I refused to let one bad experience govern the rest of my day.
I strode back to the VW, gripping my resume and staring blindly at my name on the front page.
Rebecca Starr. Unemployed, and, apparently, a doctor’s ho.
I walked out onto the sidewalk, growling under my breath, and rammed straight into a ton of bricks.
Chapter 9
Mason
“Easy,” I said and caught her by the shoulders. This bullet of a human being had shot out onto the sidewalk and interrupted my slow stroll and internet search for the best moving companies near Stoneport.
“Ouch.” The woman stepped back and glared up at me.
And, for the fucking twentieth time since the start of the weekend, I lost my breath. “Becca,” I said.
“You,” she replied, and narrowed her eyes at me. Not the reaction I’d expected after the text last night and the fun yesterday afternoon. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to walk and text?”
“I wasn’t texting.”
“Fine, walk and phone, whatever the verb is for it,” she replied, and tucked a sheaf of papers against her chest. “What are you made out of, anyway, granite?”
“You would know.” I lowered my voice, drinking her in at last. Tight tailored pants molded to her thighs, a loose cotton blouse, her bra just barely visible underneath. Here we go again. I cleared my voice. “Good morning, by the way. Sorry not sorry for running into you. I’ve been thinking about you since I woke up.”
Becca caught her breath and glanced back over her shoulder at the Dirty Rice Diner, and the customers in the front garden, who craned their necks. I saw a couple familiar faces but didn’t wave. I was too caught up in her. The scent of roses on the air.
You are so fucked.
“I—hello,” she said, after a beat. “What are you—why aren’t you at work?”
“I’ve got some free time. My nine a.m. canceled and no appointments till eleven.” I’d been taking on less at work, diverting more of my patients to Doctor Crown to acclimate them to a new doctor. My replacement would be here by next month, and that doctor would take on the last of my patients.
“OK,” Becca said and shrugged. “Well, nice seeing you again. I’d better get going.”
“Wait a sec.” I caught her arm, and the contact zipped through me powerfully. I let her go immediately to keep from sporting an erection in my jeans. “You wanna grab a coffee with me? Maybe some banana pudding? That’s kind of a big deal around here.”
“Banana pudding?”
“Right.” I grinned. “Dirty Rice Diner does a mean pudding.”
“No, thank you. I mean, I would, but I just went in there looking for a job and got rejected. Kind of awkward if you ask me.” Becca grimaced, and checked her watch. “I’d better get going. I’ve got an actual interview at Betsy’s Place in twenty minutes.”
The fact that Flo had rejected her stiffened my spine, but it was typical of her and the company she kept. “Betsy’s Place? Love it. Mind if I tag along? Not to the interview, just to the restaurant. Their pudding’s even meaner than the diner’s.”
“Oh,” Becca said. “Sure. You really like pudding, huh?”
Not as much as I like your pussy. “It’s my second favorite thing to eat,” I replied.
Becca caught the innuendo and blushed, then hurried over to a beat-up old Beetle parked a couple feet away. She whipped out a set of keys and unlocked the driver’s side door and frowned at me, just standing there watching her. “You didn’t bring your Dodge?”
“I walked. Practice is right down the road. Mind if I hitch a ride, angelface?”
“Sure,” she said again, and her cheeks remained pink. So fucking delicious. Easy, easy. Nothing to see here except friendship, folks. That’s all.
I walked over to the passenger’s side, opened it up for myself, then slipped inside. My body was way too big for the car, but I squeezed in, shut the door, and looked over at her.
“Mind holding this?” She handed me her resume, and I placed it on my lap. She studied me then, and a snort of laughter escaped her. “Sorry, it’s just… You look like you’re in a clown car. I’m surprised your head hasn’t poked through the roof.”
“Or my feet through the baseboard? I could Flintstone you wherever you need to go.”
“Don’t play cute,” she said.
“Why not?”
Becca didn’t answer, opting to start the engine instead, and the slow creep of satisfaction started in my gut. Friends was bullshit. She wanted me just as much as I wanted her. Her nipples were hard against her bra, tempting me, and the fucking scent of roses was too much.
Sweaty memories of yesterday swam back again.
The drive was tense. Thankfully, Betsy’s Place was only five minutes away. We pulled up outside, Becca parked, and I gripped the back of her chair, giving her a onceover. “Are you all right?” I asked.
She shrugged and looked over at me. “Fine,” she said. �
��OK, not fine. A little unsettled, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“You’ll do great,” I replied. “Betsy’s a peach, and you’re…you.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about,” she laughed. “Being me doesn’t seem to be the best option at the moment.”
“Well, what the hell do you mean by that?”
“Never mind. It’s not important.” Becca checked her watch, and I checked her throat, the tan skin there, and my eyes moved in a line down to her cleavage. Christ, I needed a cold shower, or a slap upside the head. I’d never been this guy before. It was like I’d been transported back in time to my teenage years when my hormones had been totally out of control.
“I’d better go,” Becca prompted, and I handed her the resume.
“Good luck.” I got out of the car and closed the door behind myself then walked around to her side. No time to open the door for her. She was already out of the car and dusting off her cute work outfit. I shut the door for her regardless. “Come talk to me after you’re done,” I said. “Looks to me like you need a cup of coffee.”
“You have no idea,” she replied but smiled. Whatever had freaked her, she’d already put it behind her. This woman was strong, and that made her even more damn dangerous.
I followed her into Betsy’s, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the back of her head rather than the curvature of her ass. I wasn’t a dog. I was a goddamn qualified doctor, even if the past weekend had reduced me to my…baser urges.
The inside of the restaurant was like home to me. Betsy’s had been around since I was a kid, and the woman behind the bar waved at me as I entered, smiling bright and wide. Gray hair tied back, an apron draped over her uniform with Betsy’s printed in red italics across the pocket—she was the picture of home cookin’.
I sat down in one of the cushy, red-chaired booths just to the left of the door, watching as Becca made her way past the front counter and the lines of folks eating their breakfasts—or puddings—toward the sidebar. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, but the curls bounced. They needed to break free.
Betsy nodded to her and the conversation began, just as a waitress appeared at my table to take an order.
“Two coffees, half-and-half. Splenda,” I said.
“Sure, sugar.” I didn’t register who the waitress was or where she went. My focus was on Becca alone.
Christ, what was with me? Every cell in my body wanted her to get the damn job. If I had to put in a good word to Betsy, I would. I didn’t know Becca, technically. I didn’t know her dreams or her desires—apart from one of them—and it was meant to stay that way. So why the hell did I care whether she got the job or not?
Common courtesy. That’s all. You’re just being a regular person. Regular people want other regular people to do well.
A minute later, Becca turned from the bar and walked over to my table, expression solemn. She sat down across from me with a sigh.
“And?”
“Nope,” she said and shrugged, placing her resume on the table. “Apparently, the position is already taken. She filled it last week and tried calling me on my number, but couldn’t get through.”
“Why not?” My brow wrinkled. That didn’t sound like Mama Betsy—she was a kind-hearted woman and always followed through.
“Wrong number,” Becca said. “I—uh, changed my number last week. I didn’t think to contact the places I’d applied to and give them my new one. My fault. Totally my idiot fault.”
“Hey.” I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. This shit happens all the time. I’m sure Betsy will keep you in mind if there’s another opening and contact you. That’s the kind of person she is.”
“Thanks,” Becca said and squeezed my fingers back. She quickly slipped out of my grasp, though, and checked her watch.
The waitress returned with the coffees, breaking the atmosphere between us, and I thanked her then took a sip of my coffee. “That’s the stuff,” I said.
Becca smiled and sipped her own. “I’ve got an hour before my next appointment,” she said. “I’m thinking I should try this banana pudding you’re so crazy about. Sweeten the disappointment, you know?”
“Sounds like a plan.” We ordered, and after, I placed my foot against hers, pushing the boundary a little, testing. She didn’t move away. Her cheeks pinked, and she dragged a spoon through her coffee, biting her bottom lip.
“Why did you change your number?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“Why did you change it?”
Becca shifted in her seat and set down the spoon. “It’s complicated.”
“Friends usually talk about complicated things,” I replied. “That’s what we are, Becca. Friends. Remember?”
“I remember.” She still didn’t shift her leg from mine. “I won’t lie to you, Mason, I’m just not ready to talk about what happened to me yet. Not with anyone. It’s too close to home, if you know what I mean?”
“I take it this has something to do with the heart-being-dragged-through-glass thing you said last night?”
“Yeah.”
“I get it,” I replied. “I totally get it, and I won’t push you for details. I know what it’s like to have people prying in your business when all you want is some goddamned privacy.”
“It’s no fun.”
“All right,” I said, examining her expression, the softness of her skin, the little upturn at the end of her nose. “Tell me something else. Something fun. About you.”
“Fun about me? I haven’t had much fun in the past few years.”
“So, go back further than that. Something fun from when you were a kid.”
“Uh, when I was little my sister Peggy tried to make me drink my own pee,” Becca said and tapped the side of her mug with a short, pink fingernail. “Does that count?”
“Jesus.” I barked a laugh. “Dare I ask if she succeeded?”
“She definitely did not succeed. I caught on just in time, but I never forgave her for it. After that, it was just a series of hazing rituals until we hit our late teens and started actually liking each other.”
“I’m jealous,” I replied. “Not of the pee drinking, just of the fact that you have a sibling. I don’t have any.”
“Good,” Becca said. “I don’t think the world could handle two Doctor Dunns.”
“You’re right about that.” I laid my arm on top of the table and brushed my fingertips down the side of her hand. “Becca, what do you say—”
“Order up!” The waitress chimed next to our table and placed bowls of banana pudding in front of us.
“Oh wow, this looks amazing,” Becca said and pulled away from my touch. Shit, she shifted her leg, too.
The moment was well and truly over. A good thing, too. Keep it simple. No complications.
But sitting with her, witnessing how she ate and interacted with everyone, the cute way her nose wrinkled up on first bite and the determined set to her jaw as she spoke about getting back to work and making a new life for herself… It was obvious.
It was already too late. That complicated ship had sailed the day she’d fallen into my arms.
Chapter 10
Rebecca
“Never give up. Never surrender.”
That’d been the family motto—or rather, the sisterly motto—for as long as I could recall. No amount of shitty interviews would stop me. No amount of termites, collapsing walls, or overly handsome doctors next door would get in my way.
I’d planned on starting a new life away from New York, away from the past, and away from Kieran and all the fuck-ups the past few years had held, and damn if I wouldn’t do it.
I stood out on the back porch, looking out at the river—a part of the bayou that flanked the property—and the trees that bordered it, breathing deep.
Yesterday had been a total bust.
Every interview after the one at Betsy’s had either been shut down before it started, or the position had already be
en filled. My savings were in jeopardy, my plans were all over the place, and if Peggy told me to come to New Orleans one more time I’d scream.
The big city was over for me. I needed the small town. I needed obscurity and privacy to rebuild my life. The last thing I wanted was a high-pressure job in a restaurant in New Orleans.
The one bright speck in the day? Kathy from the animal shelter was on her way over to assess the property and decide if I could adopt Ty, the Labrador puppy. Every cloud had a wiggly silver lining.
Maybe having a little companion would keep me from worrying. And obsessing over Mason.
“Ugh, forget it,” I whispered, and folded my arms against my chest. The warm breeze rustled tree leaves down by the water.
There wasn’t a part of me that wasn’t terrified at the prospect of developing anything other than sexual feelings for Doctor Dunn. Love was…a farce. Or a trap. Or something that hurt so bad it’d made me want to rip my own eyeballs out.
I shook it off, turned, and walked back into the house, the boards creaking beneath my feet. I entered the kitchen, switched on the coffee pot, arranged two mugs, sugar, and cream, then strolled through to the front of the house and peeked out the living room window.
Right on time, a cream Toyota pulled up outside and parked in front of the gate.
Kathy emerged from the car, hair knotted in that same gray bun atop her head. She paused, clutching a clipboard to her chest, and looked up at the house, a frown wrinkling up every wrinkle that she’d ever had.
She glanced left, down the street, then back up at my house. She walked up to the gate and tested it, swinging it back and forth, then stepped through and examined the line of fencing down the front. Thankfully, Mason had replaced the gate on Saturday right after the eaves, and the rest of the fence was definitely in good enough shape to withstand the attentions of a puppy.
Finally, Kathy straightened and picked her way across the garden to the stepping-stone path that led to the front steps.
