by Elle Kennedy
26
Ben
The second we step out of the gate at the airport, I spot the reporters.
Rather than the usual folks waiting for their friends and families, Maggie and I are greeted by a crowd of vultures with microphones and cameras. Angry flashbulbs explode in front of my eyes. A slew of questions assaults my ears.
I swallow back the rage and glance over at Maggie, who looks startled. Her green eyes widen as the mob closes in on us. “What the…”
“Move,” I order before she can finish the shocked sentence.
I take her arm and practically drag her toward the exit. The press stays on our heels, capturing our every move with those intrusive cameras. We’re in a large open space but I suddenly feel like the entire airport is closing in on me, and so I quicken my strides. But I loosen my grip on Maggie’s arm when I notice my knuckles have turned white and are digging into her skin.
“Enjoy your vacation, Ben?” one obnoxious paparazzo calls out.
Another follows up with, “Maggie, how long have you two been seeing each other?”
How the fuck do they know her name? Without pausing to question the reporter, I push Maggie through the automatic doors. Her eyes are still wide, but she doesn’t say a word. Just glances back at the vultures still buzzing around us, her expression flickering with disbelief. She looks dazed, and I don’t blame her. I got used to this bullshit years ago, but I understand how it could be overwhelming for someone else.
I pull her toward a taxi, wait for her to get in, then slide inside and slam the door. Another flash catches my eye and I almost give the finger to the asshole who snapped our picture.
Leaning back in my seat, I open my mouth to address the driver, only to be cut off by Maggie. I’m taken aback when she softly gives out directions to the Olive Martini.
I frown. “Are you sure you want to go to work?”
“I don’t have a choice,” she says weakly. “My shift starts in an hour.”
Silence stretches between us. Maggie keeps her gaze glued to the window, but I can tell she’s still shaken up and confused by what just happened. I’m pretty fucking confused myself. How did the vultures learn Maggie’s identity? I hadn’t told a soul that I was staying at her apartment. Not even Stu or my publicist know about her. And the resort would never release the information—Marcus Holtridge and his staff respect their guests’ privacy far too much to sell them out to the media, especially since the resort caters to important figures and prides itself on discretion.
Unless it wasn’t a staff member who’d said anything, but another guest…
I stifle a groan as it hits me. Sonja. It had to be Sonja. She was undeniably pissed when I left her in the casino after she offended Maggie, and I wouldn’t put it past my ex-fling to get even by talking to a couple of paps. Sonja knows much I hate the vultures. If she wanted revenge for my rejecting her, calling the press would be right up her alley.
The silence in the cab drags on so long I begin to feel claustrophobic again. I want to say something, but I fear anything I say will only push Maggie farther away. She was so happy and relaxed when I first brought her to the Bahamas. I know she’d been having a good time, at least up until we ran into Sonja. But despite her shutting down afterward, she’d seemed to come around again on the plane, when I told her the truth about Gretchen. I could swear we reached some kind of turning point, although I can’t quite put a label on it yet. And now it’s all blown to hell, thanks to a few nosy reporters.
I want to tell her I’ll fix this, that somehow I’ll make the media storm go away, but I know better than to make empty promises. The press will hound me no matter what I do, and even if Stu and my PR team manage to spin the story in a way that makes my relationship with Maggie not seem so tawdry, the reporters already know her name. And that means they’ll soon learn everything else about her. Where she works, where she lives.
And if I know the vultures, they won’t hesitate to make Maggie’s life as miserable as they’ve made mine.
Fuck.
27
Maggie
“You’re late.”
My head snaps up, my hand poised over the laces of my sneakers. In the doorway of the employee lounge, Lynda stands with her arms crossed over her chest. I can tell from the look on my manager’s face that she isn’t happy with me.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I burst out, quickly kicking off my shoes and grabbing for the heels at the bottom of my locker. “It won’t happen again.”
“It’d better not.” With a deep frown, Lynda stalks off.
Ouch.
I glance at my watch, which confirms what I already know, that my shift only started five minutes ago. Since when does Lynda get so crabby over five measly minutes?
I would’ve arrived at the Olive sooner, but Ben and I got stuck in traffic on the way back from the airport. And boy, had that been one awkward cab ride.
We hadn’t said one word to each other, though I know it was more my fault than his. After being barraged by those reporters at the airport—reporters who knew my name—I didn’t know what to say or how to react. The cameras, the photographers, the questions…it was all too overwhelming. Terrifying, if I’m being honest. So I’d stayed silent, despite the fact that Ben looked desperate to talk about what happened.
Well, I’m not ready to talk about it. Not now. Not when I have an entire evening of serving to get through, and when I still can’t put into words how the sight of those reporters had made me feel.
Smothering a sigh, I finish dressing and tie my hair into a ponytail. God, I don’t want to be here right now. How can I possibly focus on work when my body still feels bruised from all those nosy questions, and my mind is still swimming with confusion over my feelings for Ben?
The last thing I feel like doing is working, a feeling that only strengthens when I step out of the lounge and realize the owner of the bar has finally decided to make an appearance. I give a startled gasp when I bump into Jeremy Henderson in the hallway.
“Mr. Henderson, hello,” I say quickly, struggling to tie my apron and keep a polite smile on my face at the same time.
He appraises me with a cool look. “You’re late, Ms. Reilly.”
“I know. It won’t happen again,” I say for the second time.
Without replying, he moves past me and rounds the counter, where he exchanges a few words with the bartenders.
I stifle another sigh. Great start to a shift—pissing off both my manager and the bar owner in less than the five minutes I was late by. I grab an order pad and a tray, and turn around just in time to bump into Trisha.
Wait—Trisha?
“Hey! What are you doing here?” I demand. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the puppet show? That’s why you took my shift yesterday, right?”
Splotches of crimson stain her cheeks. “Uh, I traded shifts with Kate. Lou cancelled tonight, but we’re going out to dinner tomorrow so I needed Kate to cover for me.”
“Lou cancelled?”
“Yeah.”
Disbelief and suspicion battle for my brain’s attention. This whole shift switcheroo hasn’t sat right with me from the beginning. “There was no musical, was there?” I say slowly.
Trisha’s cheeks grow redder. “No,” she finally admits. “But Lou and I really are going out tomorrow and it’s the first time he’s wanted to take me out to dinner in ages, so I had to switch with Kate and—”
“I need to speak to both of you,” our manager interrupts. Lynda sharply gestures for us to follow her to the other end of the counter. With Mr. Henderson out of earshot, she fixes both of us with a deadly stare. “I spend two hours every week writing up a damn schedule, coordinating everyone’s day offs, vacation requests, sick days—and I won’t have my employees screwing around with it at their leisure.”
Trisha’s flush deepens. “Lynda—”
“Let me finish.” She turns to me. “The next time you decide to take a personal day, you clear it with me first, understa
nd? You don’t call Trisha and Kate and make changes to the schedule without speaking to me.”
I swallow. “I…”
“And you,” Lynda cuts in, turning to Trisha. “You don’t take anyone’s shift without asking me. Now, both of you, get to work. Jeremy is here, so you’d better be on your best behavior.”
“What the hell is going on?” I demand after our manager marches away. “You never cleared it with Lynda?”
“You can thank me later,” Trisha shoots back. “I just got bitched at by our boss so you could go on a romantic getaway with Tony.”
Tony?
Trisha hurries off before I can respond. Since I’m fairly certain my manager’s eyes are glued to me, I grip my order pad and head toward one of my booths. I have to repeat my customer’s order three times before I get it right, but I can’t force my bewildered brain to focus.
Trisha thinks I went away with Tony? Why would she think that? And how does she even know I was away?
I drift back to the counter and place my drink orders with Matt, then curl my hands into fists as it dawns on me.
Ben.
Somehow, Ben must have contacted Trisha and asked her to cover last night’s shift.
A slow rush of anger fills my veins. Damn him. When I agreed to give him a place to stay, I only asked for one thing in return—that he didn’t complicate my life.
And what has he done? He’s complicated my freaking life!
Distracted me from my schoolwork. Stuck his nose into my job. And now, thanks to him, my face will most likely be splashed on every tabloid on the news rack. The attention at the airport made me feel angry and exposed, and although I know it isn’t Ben’s fault the media was waiting for us in the gate, I still blame him just a little. I should’ve never gotten involved someone like him.
What the hell was I thinking?
My hands tremble from embarrassment as I realize that by now the entire world probably knows about me and Ben. What if the reporters start harassing me the way they harass Ben? What if they show up here at work, or my apartment, or the Broger Center? What if they dig around in my background and decide to paint me as some abandoned foster-kid gold-digger who’s just after Ben Barrett’s oodles of cash?
The final thought makes my hands shake harder, which causes the tray I’m holding to tilt over. The pint glasses on it slide to the edge, screwing up the balance, and before I can stop it, four tall glasses of Heineken smash onto floor.
Everything shatters, cold liquid splashing against my ankles. I blush like a tomato when I notice the entire bar has gone dead silent. Customers peer over from their booths and tables to examine what caused the enormous commotion. I turn my head away from the curious stares, and a second later I’m on my knees, fumbling for shards of glass with my bare hands.
A strong arm pushes me out of the way. “Careful, you’ll cut yourself,” Matt says anxiously. He’s brought a rag with him and begins soaking up the spilled liquid.
“I’ll clean it,” I say, mortified by my clumsiness.
He pushes my hands away again. “Go clean yourself up. There’s beer dripping down your legs, Mags.”
“Let me help—”
“I can handle it.”
He looks annoyed with me and I don’t blame him. I just made a huge mess and I feel terrible that Matt is the one cleaning it up.
I swallow, nod, and rise to my feet. I spot Trisha by the counter, watching me with concern as I hurry toward the employee lounge. But my friend doesn’t follow me, most likely because she doesn’t want to make any more waves with Lynda.
There’s a small bathroom in the back of the lounge, and I head for it, pulling paper towels out of the dispenser and wiping down my beer-soaked ankles. When I exit the bathroom, I see Jeremy Henderson striding into the lounge.
“What the hell was that?” he booms.
His harsh voice sends a cold knot of dread to my gut. The tall, balding man is absolutely seething as he approaches, tailed by Lynda, whose expression displays both worry and disapproval.
“Are you all right?” she surprises me by asking. At least one of them is concerned about my well-being.
“I’m fine. I…I’m sorry, it was an accident,” I say shakily. “I lost my grip and…” I drift off, hating the pleading note in my voice. “It won’t happen again.”
“Damn right it won’t happen again,” Henderson snaps back. “You’re fired.”
I stumble backwards. “What? You’re firing me because I dropped a tray?”
His features harden. “I’m firing you for being unable to conduct yourself in a professional manner.” He lifts his hand to tick off each point with his fingers. “You’ve been late on more than one occasion. You changed the weekly schedule to suit your own personal needs. And you just caused a scene in front of a room full of customers. Clean out your locker, Ms. Reilly.”
“Mr. Henderson—” I protest.
“Jeremy,” Lynda starts with a frown.
He interrupts both of us. “Don’t argue with me. The bar has already been getting bad reviews after the menu overhaul, and the scene out there did not help the Olive Martini’s reputation. You no longer work for this establishment, Ms. Reilly. Is that understood?”
I blink back the hot tears prickling my eyes. “Understood,” I mutter.
“Good. Now clean out your locker.”
28
Maggie
Normally I’m home from the Olive in the wee hours of the morning. Tonight, I walk through the door at ten o’clock.
Ben’s lounging on the couch watching TV. His head pops in at my entrance. “Hey,” he says in surprise. “Why are you home so early? Did—shit, are you crying?”
“No,” I lie stupidly. I’m visibly teary-eyed.
In a flash, he’s off the couch and across the room. “Hey, don’t cry,” he says roughly, pulling me into his arms. “It’s okay, Red.”
“It’s not okay.” Gulping back more tears, I allow myself a few seconds of being surrounded by Ben’s strong arms. Then I ease out of his embrace. “I got fired tonight.”
“What?” he exclaims.
“The owner of the bar fired me.”
“What? Why?”
I can’t help the bite in my tone. “Messing with everyone’s shifts, for one.”
The guilt that fills his blue eyes confirms my earlier suspicions. Ben was behind Trisha’s game of Musical Shifts.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. He clears his throat. “Babe. I have something I need to tell—”
“I already know.” I pin him down with a hard look. “You got Trisha to take my shift so we could go to the Bahamas.” My mean expression doesn’t last, as a weary sigh floats out. “Don’t worry, your little trick wasn’t the only reason I was let go. I’ve been late a couple times. Oh, and I dropped a tray.”
He looks dumbfounded. “You dropped a tray.”
“Yep. Broke a couple of glasses, spilled some beer on the floor.”
“You were fired for that?”
“To quote the owner, I caused a scene.”
“That son of a bitch.”
More tears well up, and I give a small sniffle. “That son of a bitch was signing my paychecks. And now…” The tears spill over
“Now what?”
“Now I can’t pay the rest of my tuition. I still owe the college for this semester.”
“I’ll pay it,” Ben says instantly.
“You’re not paying my bills.” I swipe at my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. “I’ll figure out a way. Maybe the bank will give me a loan.”
“Let me handle it. Please.”
I gaze into his pleading eyes and shake my head. Firmly. “No, Ben.”
“Goddammit, Maggie, just let me take care of you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. It’s so tempting to say yes. Take care of me. Pay my tuition so I can graduate from college. Don’t ever, ever leave me.
But the words are stuck in my throat.
“You can’t do it, can yo
u? You can’t let anyone else carry some of your burden.” He exhales slowly. “Why won’t you let me help?” Now he inhales. “Why won’t you let me in?”
I falter. The swirl of emotion on his face is hard to process. “I…” The words escape me again. “I need a hot shower,” is what I end up saying, and then I leave the room before he can object.
A few minutes later, I’m under the shower spray, letting the warm water slide over my face and ease the ache in my swollen eyes. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I’ve always associated tears with weakness, vulnerability. And I haven’t felt vulnerable since I was a child.
It bothers me that I’m crying over the loss of a stupid waitressing job. People lose their jobs all the time. It’s a trivial fact of life. It isn’t the end of the world.
Only it isn’t trivial to me. The job at the Olive paid my bills. My savings are nonexistent, and it isn’t likely I can find another job in time to pay the rest of my tuition. I’m already accruing late fees like crazy, since I didn’t pay the amount in full at the beginning of the year like most students. Without my job, how am I supposed to pay the college?
I shut off the water and step out of the shower. I wrap myself up in my robe, but I hesitate before leaving the bathroom. I wonder if Ben is still in the living room. Or is he waiting in the bedroom for me? Will he start needling me again about letting him help me?
God, I don’t want him to help me. But maybe I should let him. I mean, he kind of owes me, seeing as how he was partially involved in my getting fired. Why the hell did he go behind my back and mess around with my work schedule? How did he convince me to leave town for two days? Why can’t he just go away?
You don’t want him to go away.
I ignore the taunting voice in my head, telling myself that of course I want him to leave. Tonight proved that he’s the complication I knew he would be, a distraction I can’t afford. We have great sex, sure, but is it worth all the headaches? The reporters who surrounded us in the airport? Losing my job?
