by KD Robichaux
“Cece, you know I’ve been a bartender for like… a decade, right?” he prompts, and my head tilts to the side.
“Well, not only that. You own the whole damn restaurant. But yes. So?” I ask.
“That liquor license may as well be a therapist’s certification, only I didn’t have to go to school for years to earn it. I promise, you can vent to me, and it won’t be nearly as bad as some of the things customers have told me.” He gives me an encouraging smile, and I relax against the bar, my elbow coming to rest on the wood and my head propping on my fist.
I know what he means. The last several weeks I’ve been bartending, people like to spill all their tea, and I’ve learned just to keep on pouring while they let it all out. “But I work for you. You sure you want to know what a hot mess your employee is?” I question.
He takes our glasses and refills them once more, but I don’t take the shot just yet. “There’s nothing you could say that would ever change my opinion of you, naekkeo,” he assures, and his tone nearly makes me swoon off my stool.
“You know,” I start, feeling rather brave, “I looked that up after the first time you called me it.”
He smirks. “Oh yeah? And what did you discover?”
“It’s Korean. And it means sweetheart. But my question is, what is a nice southern gentleman such as yourself doing speaking Korean? You don’t look Asian to me.” I gasp as soon as the words leave my mouth, and I slap my hand over my lips. “I swear I’m not racist,” I mumble through my palm. “You just don’t look Asian.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Saying someone doesn’t look Asian isn’t being racist, you goober.” He props a piece of lime on the edge of my shot glass. “I was in the military, stationed in South Korea for nearly six years. I picked up on a few things,” he explains.
“Really? I didn’t know there were US troops in Korea,” I admit. “But what do I know? I, good sir, never went to school past high school.” I point to him with my wedge of lime then use it to make the side of my hand sticky enough for the salt to stick. “Well, until a couple months ago. Now I’m the old bitch in the freshmen core classes with freaking teenagers.”
Suddenly, my wrist is in a tight grip, one that is firm but doesn’t hurt, and my startled eyes look above where my lime is now hovering midair until I meet the fiery gaze of my larger-than-life boss.
“One,” he growls, “never speak about yourself in that tone in my presence again, naekkeo. I don’t like hearing you be self-deprecating, insinuating that you’re stupid, when I know for a fact you are anything but.”
I gulp, nodding slowly, unable to look away from his face so close to mine, the closest he’s been since the evening the tornado hit, and he’s touching me. He had been the first man to touch me besides Mike and my stepdad in a literal decade when we hid in the refrigerator, and although it’s only my wrist at the moment, I feel it in every cell of my fucking body.
“Two—” His grip lightens, and he nudges the saltshaker closer toward me, visibly forcing himself to cool his jets. “—yes. The busiest US Army airfield in Asia is at Camp Humphreys, and it’s the largest US military base overseas.”
“Oh,” I breathe, dutifully shaking the salt on my hand when he prompts me to do so with his gorgeous chocolatey eyes. “And um… what did you do in the military?” My voice quivers, not from fear but from being able to feel his touch as if he were still holding my wrist. Had it ever felt that way when Mike touched me? Scorching, like a brand, but in the best of ways?
I stop that thought in its tracks.
It’s unfair to compare Winston to Mike.
But at the same time, Mike was my first everything. He’s the only person I can gauge any new experience with. Surely, it’s only natural for me to do so.
“I was a cook,” he replies, and that pulls a smile across my face.
“Well, that makes sense,” I tell him, gesturing around his bar and grill with the shot glass. “You must’ve made bank overseas in order to open up your own restaurant.” I close my eyes, shaking my head. “God, I’m sorry. I think the alcohol has loosened my tongue to a rude degree. I shouldn’t have said that.”
I feel his presence get oh so much closer, and when I open my eyes again, he’s only inches away as he props himself on his elbows right in front of me.
“When are you going to realize you can say, ask, and do anything you want with me, and I’m not going to find you stupid or rude, Cece?” he prompts, and I audibly gulp. “There’s nothing in this world I want more than to get to know everything about you. And for you to get to know me.”
There’s a pause in which all we do is stare into each other’s eyes, and I’m trying to figure out if I really heard what he just said, or if I’m just imagining what I’d love to hear Winston Schmidt say to me in my wildest fantasies.
“But no, I didn’t make enough in the military to build my own restaurant. I did, however, earn the GI bill and used it to go to culinary school. And when I graduated, I was granted my trust fund, which I used to”—he gestures out with his arm but doesn’t move from his place right in front of me—“build my own restaurant.”
I swallow again. Have I even blinked? Can I blink? I think I’ve lost that ability.
“Trust fund?” I squeak.
He smirks. “You know how I’m too hot to have a geeky name like Winston?” he asks, and I feel the heat of the tequila suddenly turn into a blazing inferno inside my gut as embarrassment fills me. He heard me say that to Steph? Jesus H. Christ.
“I—”
He grins wickedly and cuts me off. “It’s a family name. One I got from my father, who is, in fact, a geek. A literal genius actually. Invented one of the first firewalls to block viruses when home computers first came on the market.”
My eyes widen at that. “Fuuuck, so you’re like, loaded-loaded.”
He shakes his head. “No, my dad is. Not me—well, I take that back. Just not compared to him. I invested my chunk of the family money, used it to make my dream of being the chef of my own restaurant come true, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I do… pretty well.” He gives me a smile that tells me he’s being modest. “Now, do you want to put my liquor therapy license to use and tell me what else has got you down now?”
Without even thinking, the words just burst forth. “I want a divorce.” I look down into the shot I haven’t taken yet, pick it up, and shoot it, forgetting about the salt I already sprinkled on my hand, but it doesn’t matter. I’m numb enough now that it still goes down smooth, but I bite the lime just to give myself something to do as Winston stares at me.
“So what’s stopping you?” he finally asks.
I grimace. “The asshole told me he’s not going to pay for it and it’s up to me to file. Like, why? Why the hell isn’t he willing to cough up the cash, when he’s the one who fucked some bitch and ruined our marriage? Ugggh!” I groan, slouching on the stool and banging my forehead on my arm resting on the bar. “And now I just confessed to my hot boss that my husband didn’t want me anymore and found some other ho to put his dick in. Tequila is the devil.”
I scream as I’m suddenly spun on my stool, the entire world tilting until I’m lifted by my waist and my ass is planted on top of the bar. There’s a loud screech as the stool I had been on is slid over, and then Winston’s big body is between my legs, my hands on his shoulders to keep me from falling over.
“I told you never to speak about yourself in that tone in front of me again, naekkeo,” he growls, and my breath catches in my throat at the fire in his eyes. It matches the blaze that’s suddenly taken up residence in my core. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life.
No, scratch that.
I know for a fact that I’ve never been this aroused before. No one has ever made me feel this wanton, so aching with the need to have something fill me up and erase this void inside me.
“What that motherfucker did has nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with you. It was selfish and the stupi
dest thing anyone has ever done on the face of the planet, ruining his opportunity to call you his, to spend the rest of his goddamn life with you.” His nostrils flare as his breath saws in and out in heaving pants, the grip he has on my hips tightening to an erotic degree of pain and pleasure. “But his stupidity, his loss of that incredible opportunity is my gain, because without him making that idiotic mistake, I would’ve never had the chance to do this.”
And then his lips slam against mine.
I moan as one of his huge hands leaves my hip and tangles in the hair at the back of my head, digging his fingers into my scalp and tilting my head the way he wants it. And then his tongue is in my mouth, and the flavor of the tequila and the lime and something that is wholly Winston fills my every sense.
I gasp as I become aware of his hard abs pressing against the seam of my jeans, sending thunderbolts of pleasure through my clit. My short nails dig into the thick muscles of his shoulders, holding him to me, not wanting him to move away, and in that moment, my legs grow a mind of their own and lock around his back, pulling him even closer.
His mouth never leaves mine, even as he growls against my lips, “Fuck, naekkeo. I’ve never tasted anything as sweet as you.”
I shudder at the sincerity in his voice, the aching need I feel radiating from him that matches the desperation of my own. For the first time in my life, I can actually sense that a man desires me just as much as I desire him, and it’s an intoxicating feeling, even more intoxicating than the tequila I consumed.
The liquor running through my veins as I make out with and grind against my boss.
Fucking hell. I’m drunk and dry-humping my boss!
My legs drop and I jerk away as if I’ve been electrocuted, my hand leaving his shoulder and slapping across my mouth as my eyes widen in horror.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
His eyes meet mine, the hunger in them nearly making me forget the reality that just punched me in the face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice husky, sending its usual shiver up my back.
“I’m…. We can’t do this!” I squeak out, my throat tight. “You’re my boss, Win. And… and I’m still married.”
“You’re separated, and what does it matter that I’m your boss? What I feel for you is real, no matter how we met,” he tells me, his hand loosening its grip in my hair when he sees the emotion in my eyes.
“I may be separated, but no divorce papers have been filed. And I don’t even know when that will happen, since it’s up to me to somehow come up with the money to do it. And if what everyone says is true, that shit is not cheap, especially when there are children and ten years of assets involved.”
“Then let me pay. Let me help you—”
I’m shaking my head before he’s even finished speaking. “No way. There is no way I’m letting you pay for my divorce. That is just…. It feels wrong.”
“What’s so wrong about it, Cece? You want out of this marriage, and he’s given you this… demand that he knows you’re financially unable to fulfill. Now, we don’t know the reason he has for making it up to you to pay for it when he’s the one who cheated, but I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with maybe an agreement y’all had when you got married. Did you happen to have a prenup?”
I shake my head again. “No, nothing like that. I feel like… maybe he’s taking advantage of the fact that, in the beginning, when we first separated, I stupidly told him I didn’t need him and didn’t want anything from him. I let my bruised ego, my idiotic pride, get in the way of my logical sense and have been struggling like hell to make ends meet. And now he’s gotten used to not having to take care of me. He still pays child support, but even that, I low-balled him, because I was all ‘girl power’ and ‘I don’t need a man!’ I’ve never even spoken to a lawyer, because I… because I thought this was… Ugh! I don’t know what I thought. It never even crossed my mind that I’d one day be separated and getting divorced, so I never had a backup plan in place. I never even let my mind wander about ‘What would I do if someday this wasn’t my life.’ And I have not done a good job of winging it.”
“Then let me help you. Naekkeo, I can literally walk… twenty feet away”—he holds his arm out, hand up, gesturing toward the door behind the bar—“open up a safe, and hand you the money that would otherwise just be sitting there for a rainy day. When it would take you God only knows how long to save it up yourself. Fuck, I’ll loan it to you, if that makes you feel better. You can just borrow it for now, and then pay me back little by little. And in the meantime, you’ll be free of him. You won’t have this hanging over your head. It’ll just be done, and you can finally get on with your life.”
I bite my lip. God, it’s so tempting. But at the same time, it makes me feel so awkward having the man I was just making out with offer to pay for my divorce from my husband. Isn’t there a saying about counting your chickens before they hatch? Or would it be having my cake and eating it too? One of those damn metaphors has gotta fit, where I shouldn’t be having feelings for anyone before I’m even legally single.
But Winston is right. It could take years for me to be able to save up to file for divorce. And if I were to take out a loan to do it, there would be interest on top of that. If I take Winston’s offer, at least I’m borrowing it from someone I trust and who will understand what I’m going through.
And just the thought of being able to go ahead and file as soon as possible instead of having to wait makes this huge weight lift off my shoulders, weight I didn’t even realize I was carrying around until now.
Finally, I nod, looking up at him hesitantly. “A loan. And… I want you to go ahead and take payments out of my paycheck, so I won’t even have to worry about it,” I tell him, and he brushes that off.
“We can figure all that out later. First and foremost, you need to find a lawyer, one who has experience with women like you, who have been stay at home moms for most if not all of their marriage,” he tells me, and I agree.
“Looks like I’ve got more homework to do than just stupid Algebra.” I sigh, and he chuckles, resting his hot palms on the tops of my thighs he still stands between, making me jerk at the contact.
“I’m here for you a hundred percent of the way, naekkeo. If you need to talk, all you have to do is say something, and I’ll be there,” he assures me, and there is so much sincerity in his tone that my heart calms from what had been an erratic beat.
“Because of your liquor therapy license?” I joke, smiling shyly.
He shakes his head. “Because I have personal experience with this shit and can help you through it,” he replies, and it just now registers that he has a son and isn’t with the boy’s mom, so he would have some experience dealing with at least child custody agreements.
But the next words out of his mouth, words that I never in my wildest dreams thought would ever be aimed at me by a man I’ve fantasized about since the day I met him, make the tequila in my veins sizzle, warming me in a way I’ve never felt before. And all I can do is swallow and nod.
“And because the moment those papers are filed, there will be no stopping me from making you mine.”
10
Winston
It’s been a week since I was pressed between Cece’s legs, feeling the heat of her pussy against my abs as I took her mouth in a kiss more searing than my fucking cooktop I’m currently flipping three burger patties on for Table 14. And in that week, I’ve had to jack off no less than ten times, because I can still feel the way her tongue danced with mine, shyly at first, as if relearning how to kiss, and then more boldly when she allowed her instincts to take over. And every time I let myself reminisce the hottest experience of my life—which is saying something, seeing as we’d only made out for a couple minutes before she pulled away from me—I have no choice but to take care of my raging hard-on, or I can’t sleep, my mind replaying it over and over again.
In that week, I helped her find a lawyer, paid all the costs, and have managed to evade
all her sweet attempts at setting up a payment plan in order to repay me. Little does she know, she won’t be giving any of it back to me. I think of it as an investment in my—our—future, in which what’s mine is hers and vice versa.
I’ve thought a lot about what else I need to take care of before Cece and I can truly start our life together, and so far, I’ve only managed to come up with a plan for her side of the equation. As far as mine goes, I haven’t found any fucking loopholes, and it’s making me fucking crazy. And I still haven’t come up with a way to tell her about that part of my past without her thinking I’m a lying sack of shit.
But I still have time. I just need enough to make her fall in love with me first, to make sure she won’t put an end to us before we even begin, before I tell her everything.
Does that make me the liar I worry about her thinking of me as?
Oh, most definitely.
I’m a terrible person for lying by omission to the woman I want to make mine and spend the rest of my life with. She deserves so much better than a scheming motherfucker who plans to woo her and get her emotionally attached before revealing my past mistakes in the hopes she’ll more readily overlook them.
But I can’t just let her go. I’ve known from the moment I laid eyes on her that I wanted her. And as I’ve gotten to know more about her and about her life, I’ve fantasized what it would be like having her as my wife. What it would be like for my son to have a mom like her. What it would be like to be a father figure for her girls, one who is actually present and willing to spend more than one day a week with them. What it would be like to have hers, mine, and then our own children together. One big, blended, happy family.
“Table 14,” comes that sweet voice, and I peek under the range just as I finish filling the other side of the plates with french fries to go along with the finished burgers.
“You have news for me, naekkeo?” I ask her, the same thing I’ve asked every day this week, to which she’s always replied “Not yet.”
