by Emma Hart
I shrug one shoulder and look back to my companions. Simon is looking at me quizzically. It’s a kind of amused quizzical look, and I frown.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head and smiles slightly. “I’ve just never seen someone behave with a waiter that way. Do you know the family well?”
I laugh a little and barely stop myself from snorting. “If there’s one thing you should know about Barley Cross, it’s that everybody knows everybody. Oh, two things. Everybody also knows everybody’s business. Honestly, if you can have sex without it being the hot topic at Bingo on a Friday night, then you’ve done good.”
Carly’s eyes bug at me across the table. “Brooke!” she chokes out.
“What?”
“You can’t just say that!”
Ian laughs. “Sure she can, Carly. It’s true. I bet Mrs. Lewis will ask us all about our date when she comes into the bank, and I didn’t tell her.”
Carly chews the inside of her lip. “Well, I suppose you have a point.”
I give her a satisfied smile, and turn back to Simon. His dark eyes are fixated on me, and I can almost see the cogs whirring in his brain.
He’s no doubt realizing how crazy I am, and wondering when the hell he can get away from the odd brunette opposite him.
Such is my life.
Georgio returns with our wine, and after pouring four glasses, leaves us. Carly, Ian, Simon, and I make small talk before and during our meal. It’s a comfortable kind of small talk. Carly twirls her hair around her finger and giggles at Ian’s jokes. Ian plays footsies with Carly under the table and touches her at every opportunity.
Am I the only person who can see what a creep he is? Seriously?
An hour later, when we’ve al eaten, Alessandro brings the bill over. I give him another smile for good measure. He blushes and scoots off. I chuckle to myself as Ian leads Carly over to the counter to pay our bill.
“Georgio was right,” Simon muses, his eyes finding their way back to me.
“About what?” I raise my eyebrows and tilt my wine glass slightly.
“You spoil him with your bella smiles.” He gives me a pretty damn bella smile of his own.
It’s my turn to blush a little. “Like I said, I’m just teaching him.” I finish the rest of my wine and put my glass down, licking my lips. Simon’s eyes are focused on them when I glance back at him. I clear my throat slightly.
He meets my eyes again and shifts. “Sorry if I wasn’t the best company tonight. I’m not really a dating kinda guy.”
I smile widely. “Well, contrary to popular belief, I’m not really a dating kinda gal, either, so you’re in great company.”
“Really? For some reason I imagined you having a long line of guys waiting to take you out.”
I laugh and this time, I do snort. “Sorry.” I cover my mouth with my hand while I compose myself. “No, no. I don’t have any kind of line of guys waiting to date me. Carly usually has to drag them kicking and screaming.”
Because I’m the one waiting in line for someone I’ll never have... And being dragged kicking and screaming to dates like these.
“In that case,” Simon leans forward slightly, his eyes fixed hotly on mine, his lips curved upward, “would you object to me asking you for a second date?”
I cross my legs under the table, my lips curling up slightly. Hell, he’s hot, he’s nice, and he’s a gentleman. And I don’t have any other offers.
“Not at all,” I reply. “I’d love to go on another date.”
FOUR
LIFE TIP #4: Smile. Even if you’re thinking about murdering the person you’re smiling at.
I smile sweetly at the couple across from me. Their hyper four-and-seven-year-old children are running around my table shrieking about Disneyland, while the couple themself pours over several brochures trying to decide the best value vacation for their family. Their preference? Somewhere the kids can be amused and they can have some peace.
I’m not surprised.
I’m also tempted to remind them they are looking at Disneyland, California brochures, so there’s a better than average chance that the kids will be amused. For their peace, I want to suggest earplugs, but I kinda need my job, so I’ll keep schtum.
“This one,” the woman says after what seems like an age. She jabs a chubby finger at the package, and I nod and smile.
“Of course. Let me just check the availability of that one for you.” I type it into my computer and pray to the God of Mondays that there’s space on their chosen dates. I even cross my toes—and that’s no easy feat in these killer shoes, I tell you.
“There’s space on those dates for you,” I say politely. “Would you like to book?”
“Well of course we’d like to book,” the woman snaps. “Charlie! Laura! That is enough!”
I blink at the sharp tone of her voice and plaster a fake smile on my face. Murder isn’t worth the jail time, Brooke. Remember that. You’re too pretty for prison. “Of course, ma’am. Let me start that for you.”
The girl—Laura, presumably—begins to cry, and Charlie stamps his feet. The high-pitched wail goes right through me. I try not to cringe at the worst delayed reaction I’ve seen since I egged Cain on his twenty-first birthday. He stood still for three minutes and seventeen seconds before he finally realized what I’d done.
I go through the motions of organizing, booking, planning, and taking money from the family. It takes about twenty minutes longer than it should due to the fact Charlie “broke” his foot from stamping it too hard and Laura’s nose became a snot version of Niagara Falls.
I look at the clock the second they leave, sighing happily with the realization it’s break time. After logging off my computer, I accept a sympathetic smile from Sarah, another travel rep, and disappear into the crummy little box Jet calls a staff room.
At least there’s no Jet. A look in the cabinets reveals there’s a distinct lack of cookies. And vodka. Which, after dealing with that family... the vodka is totally necessary.
I really need to start sneaking some in in a Pepsi bottle.
“Break time already, Brooke?”
I clench my teeth and turn to face my boss. “Yep.”
He sneers and pushes past me to the kettle. He’s actually really ugly when he sneers. It’s a shame, because if he wasn’t such an asshole, I’d actually consider him quite attractive with his blonde hair and blue eyes. Alas, he is an asshole, so he’s about as attractive as, well, an asshole.
“How are you doing this morning?” he asks casually.
“Sold two weeks to Disneyland,” I reply.
“Disneyland?”
“Couldn’t afford World. I tried.”
He grunts. “And that’s it?”
“That’s it. It is 10 a.m. on a Monday morning, Jet.” I take my tea and sit at the table. “I’m not going to sell a honeymoon to the Maldives, am I?”
His blue eyes focus on me in slits. “I’m your boss, Brooke. You will treat me with respect.”
I snap my teeth together and smile tightly as he walks past me. Smile, smile, smile... And check online for people who are hiring.
Clearly, no-one ever told Jethro Peters that respect is something you earn.
“No, Mom, I’m not sitting around doing nothing,” I half-lie, propping my feet up on the coffee table.
“Well with you not in college any more, Brooke, I do worry about you,” she says through the phone.
“You half-kicked me out. Remember that argument?”
“I did it for your own good, darling. You’re twenty-four. It’s time you learned to look after yourself.”
“I can look after myself just fine. I was the first to walk, first to be potty trained, and most importantly, the first to wipe my own ass,” I remind her.
“Brooke!” she exclaims, her shrill tone almost deafening.
I jump, nearly dropping the phone.
“What?” I ask, righting it against my ear. “I’m just telling it how it is.
”
Mom sighs, and I can almost hear her wondering how she raised such a goddamn mess for a daughter. “No wonder you’re single.”
“Being single is a life choice. Not everyone needs a man to feel good. That’s why they created vibrators.”
“I... I can no longer have this conversation. I will see you on Sunday for dinner. Goodbye, Brooke.” The line goes dead.
I grin.
And that is why I’m so exhausting. It gets rid of Mommy Dearest.
My mother does not talk about sex. The closest she gets is reminding me of my relationship status and lack of higher education. The fact I don’t own a degree, when my brother and sister both do means I apparently need to be looked after by someone who does have one.
Hmph. I am an independent woman, not a dependent, baby-making, barefoot housemaid. I can wash my own underwear, cook my own food—kind of—and do my own DIY. I can even work out when something is broken. Okay, that’s usually because it doesn’t turn on, but I can work it out and find the number for customer service.
Anyway, the point is, I do not need a man. Any man. I don’t even need their help. At all.
I move to get up, and right at that moment, my TV screen goes blank and all my lights go out. My fridge is no longer whirring, and I can’t see my hand in front of my face. Shit.
I really, really, hate power outages.
I sit for five minutes in the darkness, waiting for the electricity to come back on. I’m starting to panic. Not because I have no heat or hot water or light, but because I just know that the ice cream in my freezer is melting as I speak. This is some power outage.
Using my phone as I move, I slip my feet into my slippers and trudge down the dark hall and staircase to the apartment below mine. There’s no point trying the light, so my little phone screen will have to do.
I make it to the bottom of the stairs without tripping and mentally pat myself on the back. I knock on the door. No answer. I knock again, louder this time. No answer.
Dammit. It looks like I need a man.
I reluctantly dial Cain’s number and make my way back up the stairs to my apartment.
“Yellow?” he answers.
“I need you.”
“It’s not often you tell me that.” He chuckles. “What have you done?”
“What makes you assume that I have done something?”
“Because you usually have.”
Whatever. Asshole. “I have no electricity. I think a transformer blew.”
“How long has it been off?”
“Um, ten minutes.”
“Are you there alone?” I can hear him moving in the background.
“Yes.”
“Want me to come over?”
“Um. Yes. Please.”
“See you in five.”
I hang up and fall backwards onto my sofa. So much for being an independent woman.
Maybe I’ll just be an independent woman during the day... when the power’s on. And when there are no spiders in my tub.
Yep—definitely need a man for the bathtub spiders.
I stare into the darkness for an indeterminate amount of time, and unfortunately, my entire life flashes before my eyes. Ironic in the darkness, I know, but still. It feels like I see everything... Friendships and heartbreaks and my mother’s horrified look when my sister got married to a respected doctor seven years her senior...
Except the horror was directed at me for my closest dating prospect being a chocolate fudge cake, so what do I know?
Cain lets himself into my apartment using his spare key and shines a tiny LED flashlight around. “You there, B?”
“Yup.” I hold up my empty wine bottle as high as I can for his light to flick over it.
“Where are you?”
“Upside down on the couch.”
“Why are you upside down on the couch?”
“Because I got bored waiting for you. And I was on the phone with my mom earlier.”
Shuffling, and then, “That explains a lot. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I blow out a long breath, then, a minute later, I hear a couple of knocks and a loud click before my lights come back with a few flickers.
Holy shit. Did he turn the power on? How did he do that?
“How did you do that?” I ask at the sound of him shutting my door.
Cain leans on the back of the sofa next to my feet and grins, his handsome face sadly right in alignment with mine. “It wasn’t the transformer. Your breaker tripped off. I just went down to the basement to turn it back on.”
Lord only knows what that is, but his face is real close to me... I swing my legs around from the back cushions and sit up, only to find my face right back close to him.
I can see every dip and curve of his face. Every dark, curly eyelash that frames his gorgeous green eyes. Every little stubbly hair that decorates his jaw. The soft dimple at the edge of his mouth...
Eesh. I slide back across the sofa an inch. “What’s a breaker?”
He stares at me blankly for a second before recognition flits through his startling gaze. “When the hell did I ever think it was a good idea to let you live alone?”
That’s offensive. I’m twenty-four, not twelve. And all the movies I’ve seen show a clear affinity for hot guys in apartment blocks, or at least dodgy, sixty-something maintenance guys. Wasn’t that real?
“I wasn’t aware you were responsible for making that decision,” I say dryly.
A small grunt leaves him. “We should have moved in together.”
My heart sputters a little. Vomits, actually. And misses the toilet bowl. Or anything remotely close to being able to catch it.
“So I could hear you and Nina bumpin’ uglies every night? Hell no!” I stand up and walk into my kitchen. I need a drink, and, well, my mom made me drink what was left of that wine bottle.
“You think I’d do that if we lived together?” he asks tightly.
Oh, he sounds a little pissed. Good. I’m a little pissed.
“Maybe. I don’t know, do I? Where else are ya gonna do it? Out the back by the dumpsters? Against a tree?”
I spin around to find him standing right in front of me. My eyes automatically find his bright green ones and fixate on them, but I’m not sure who’s holding who captive. His gaze is intense, a spark of anger in the depths of it.
“Then maybe I should move in,” he says tightly.
I step back, still clutching my unopened bottle of wine. Jesus, no. What a bad idea. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“To prove you wrong.”
“You don’t need to prove me wrong. I haven’t even lived here for a week yet. Besides, I don’t want Nina in my apartment.” I’m not even going to bother to disguise my dislike for her. I’ve tried to like her. I’ve failed. Is it petty? Yes. Do I care? No.
Do I need to grow up a little? Eh, probably.
“It wouldn’t be your apartment if I moved in,” he says.
“Precisely.” I slam the wine bottle down on the island in the middle of the kitchen. “This is my apartment, not ours. Completely forgetting Nina, you would drive me completely insane if you lived here. And even if you do consider it...” I pause as... it... flashes in my mind, “you’d have to fuck her in the elevator or I’d pour bleach over her head. Mind you, it’d save her the salon trip... But still. No, Cain. You’re not living with me because, lord help me, I cannot stand the Barbie to your Ken.”
I put my hands on my hips with a sense of finality and determination flooding my veins, my fingers brushing his as I do so.
We’re standing so close that our bodies are almost touching. His hands are ghosting over mine, and there’s barely room to breathe between our chests. We’re so close that if I raised myself onto my tiptoes, our lips would brush the way our fingers just did.
And judging by the way his gaze keeps flitting toward my mouth, Cain knows it.
My heart thunders against my ribs. No, no. I don’t want to feel this attraction rig
ht now. I’m mad at him, damn it. I’m mad at his stupid-ass suggestion he should move in because I can’t live by myself. I’m not swallowing to stop my mouth drying out because his fitted t-shirt shows his muscles to perfect and his jeans are slung low on his hips.
No. None of it. I’m not trying not to kiss him right now.
I bite the inside of my cheek and dig my fingers into my sides as he takes a deep breath. His eyes flick to my mouth where they linger on my lips for a moment, then glance back up.
“You drive me fucking crazy every single day, Brooke,” he mutters, green eyes searching mine compellingly. “And you’re right. Living with you would be a goddamn disaster. If we lived together, I might actually do something about it.” He turns from me and stalks across my apartment, then wrenches my front door open.
I’m stunned into silence, unable to do anything but watch him as he passes through it, tugging it to slam behind him. Drive him...
I drive him crazy?
Is he crazy?
He must be. Must be totally insane.
If he had any idea what crazy meant, he’d be all up in my business, but he’d know why I’m crazy.
I want to run out the door after him and scream at him that’s he’s the reason I’m so crazy. That he’s the reason I exist in a half-world of fucking insanity caused by nothing more or less than his bottle-blonde bitch of a girlfriend.
Until my mother calls. Again. And puts a thankful end to what was about to be a bad choice.
“Hello, Mother,” I say into the phone, leaning back against the door Cain just slammed. “Another call? You’re up late.”
“Your brother-in-law just got a promotion!” she shrieks. “Isn’t it wonderful, Brooke? He’s head of the pediatric department and runs his own clinic so he’ll have more time at home with Billie and the kids!”
Ah.
My brother-in-law: Marcus.
The decorated doctor.
“Wonderful, Mom,” I say. “I’ll call Billie tomorrow. I’m at work early so I have to go. Bye!”
I hang up and throw my phone across my apartment to the sofa. It bounces off the cushion and onto the floor. The last thing I want to hear is how perfect my big sister’s life is and how she and Doctor Saint can do no wrong.
