Текст книги "Seeing You "

Автор книги: Michelle Lynn

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CHAPTER TWO

Todd

I glance down to my feet, thinking how I can word this so I won’t sound like a complete dipshit. Of course, I got her the job at CHOPs with no strings attached, but then a brilliant plan came to me when we were in the kitchen, and I saw the way Davis looked at her.

“The boss seems to like you.”

“Davis? He’s nice.”

She continues to walk, but I sense her apprehension from the way her hands are tucked into her pockets. She’s waiting patiently for the bomb to drop.

“He is . . . well, from what I know of him, he’s a workaholic.”

I bite my lip. There are times when I feel as though I know Noodle well, and other times, I don’t. We’ve had a few conversations when she’s taken my pictures, but she keeps a lot of herself closed off. I’ve wondered if it’s because of the guy I saw running out on her the day I moved in. The image of her broken, in her doorway, has never left me. She tried to wipe the tears and act normal, but I saw through her facade. Whoever that guy is, he’s an asshole, and I hope she knows that.

“It’s paid off for him.” Her head faces forward. She bears no emotion.

“Yeah. I was thinking . . . since he’s definitely into you—”

Her head springs my way. “You think he’s into me?” she interrupts. Her eyes open wide in surprise.

Now, she’s perked up.

“Yes.”

A small smile creeps up the corners of her mouth, and she shakes her head in disbelief.

“I think he was just being a nice boss.” She focuses down and I wonder what’s going on in that head of hers. I sensed her low self-esteem a few times, but she usually smiles through it—at least in front of me.

“Trust me, Noodle. He’s interested.”

She shrugs.

“So, I was thinking that you could keep him distracted and get him to go out—at least, out of the kitchen.”

“What?” She stops, and hurt fills her eyes before confusion sets in. “You trying to whore me out or something?”

Shit. I should have led into that easier. Slower, for sure.

A deep chuckle pours out of me. “No.” I attempt to calm my humor down. “I’m not asking you to screw him. Just flirt a little. Keep him out of the kitchen. You might even like him.”

“Is this a stipulation of you getting me the job?” She crosses her arms over her chest and juts out her hip.

She’s oddly cute when she’s mad and damn—those tits.

“No. I already got you the job. I was thinking this would be more of a thank-you gesture.” My shoulders lift.

She inhales a deep breath. “How about just the ‘nightcap’?” She puts nightcap in air quotes.

“I’ll buy the nightcap. Just put yourself out there, and see if he bites.”

This might be getting worse instead of better.

“Seriously, Todd, you are demented.”

She shakes her head and steadily proceeds toward the subway.

I jog to catch up to her. “Hold up.”

I grip her arm, but she yanks it out of my grasp.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I want to find investors for my own place. He’s always there, never letting me showcase any of my dishes. I’ve tried to go through the chain, asking him to let me create a special here or there, but he’s refused me every time.” I hold her vision with mine until the corners of her lips turn. “Forget I asked.” My shoulders deflate as I realize it was a dick move. I’ve officially lost it. My desperation is definitely clouding my judgment.

“Apology accepted.”

I stop. A warm feeling spurs in my stomach from her ability to forgive me so easily.

I follow her to the top of the subway stairs.

“I saw how he was looking at you in the kitchen, and I just thought it could be good for both of us.”

She giggles and shoves me. “So, you thought, ’yeah, I’ll whore Lia out’.”

“Actually, I thought, ‘I’ll whore Noodle out’.”

Her hand reaches out to shove me again, but I grab ahold of it and pull her in to me. A strawberry scent floats from her hair. This is the first time I’ve hugged her, and from her limp arms, I’m thinking I’ve made another dumbass move by initiating contact.

She laughs into my sweatshirt and steps back. “You’re a rare duck, you know that?” She jogs down the subway steps.

“More like a lone duck,” I mumble behind her.

CHAPTER THREE

Amelia

My lateness is quickly becoming a cause for concern. Ms. Cruella de Vil will surely punish me with what she assumes is a menial task of walking her two four-legged children to the dog park if I’m tardy again. Ugh . . . tardy. I hate that word, especially when it comes out of her mouth. I can just hear her sweet-as-pie voice trying to disguise her annoyance.

“Amelia, dear, you’re tardy again.”

When did I warp back to high school? Maybe next time I have to pee, I should ask her for a hall pass. Then again, high school doesn’t sound so bad. I wouldn’t mind getting caught in the locker room, lip-locked with a boy with his hand down my pants.

That never happened to me, but it sounds nice right about now.

My dry spell is turning into a damn drought with nothing but clear blue skies. That just makes my thoughts flicker to Davis, and oh my, is he sexy as all hell. I don’t care what Todd says—Davis is trouble. I’m sure of it.

I’ve been at CHOPs for a week now, and Todd was right. The staff is friendly. I think I’m beginning to fit in. I’ve even exchanged some private jokes about the regulars.

Those three girls who were huddled around the cell phone my first day—Heather, Cindy and, Ashley—shared some inside gossip with me the other night when we were closing. It was the usual restaurant crap—who’s slept with whom, who might have an STD, and who to stay away from because they absolutely do have an STD.

It’s the restaurant business, and I’m used to the whole everyone-knows-everything bit by now. In every restaurant I’ve ever worked at, the dating pool seems to consist of only coworkers until there’s no choice but to move outside of the circle to find someone. Not much can surprise me. I’ve heard it all.

The odd part of the whole conversation was that Davis wasn’t mentioned once. A flirty, hot boss should definitely be something to gossip about. He must have a serious girlfriend or a string of unattached women. I wouldn’t dare ask unless I wanted to be pinned with a scarlet letter on my uniform as the one who wanted to nail the boss.

I enter the stark gallery with art just as plain adorning the whitewashed walls. Weaving by the few sculptures sporadically placed throughout the middle of the room, my heels click on the medium-brown hardwood floor. Bette does everything to the norm, a conformist at her best. She never steps out of the box, even with the art she spotlights. I’m certain the only reason she’s teasing with the idea of showcasing me is because her friend just returned from Chicago. There’s a hoity-toity gallery that has a nude photographer, and everyone is raving about the pictures.

“Amelia, dear, you’re late,” she calls out from her office.

I know better than to respond until I reach her. According to Bette, there’s absolutely no reason for anyone’s voice to rise above a whisper in Art on Wells. She even made up plaques that said, Don’t disturb the art. Whispers only, please, and placed them around the gallery.

“I’m sorry, Bette.” I should’ve thought of my excuse in the short distance to her office. Crap. “The new model I was shooting had some problems with her wardrobe . . . er . . . car,” I manage to stutter out.

In actuality, I was late because I couldn’t tear myself away from The Real Housewives of Orange County. Those women might be crazy, but the catfights make the lecture from Bette worth it.

“You aren’t using that hunky blond fellow you have in all your other pictures?” she asks, completely disregarding my lie.

Hunky? Did I just step back into the eighties during the fifteen-minute walk to work?

As if.

“Todd? Yeah—I mean, yes, I’m using him. But I thought I would get some more options, maybe a woman.”

She takes off her glasses and bites one arm between her heavily applied lipstick-covered lips. “Amelia, dear, my clients don’t care for women. It’s the men, like Todd, who will draw them in to buy your art. I don’t think I have to remind you how fortunate—” Her phone buzzes and she stops her usual feel-privileged-Amelia speech that goes something like, I treat you like shit, but hey, you can display your art for one night only, and I’ll take forty percent from the top.

“I know. Thank you again, Bette, for considering to showcase me.” I cower down, denying my urge to lean across her ornate desk and scream about how ignorant she is to any form of art, let alone the nude form. “I’ll go finish that invoice from the Gecko exhibit this past weekend,” I tell her, detailing my plans so I don’t have to adhere to her nails-on-the-chalkboard instructions.

I’m two steps away from escaping the confines of her office when she calls out, “Amelia, dear, take Jasmine and Jackson to the dog park for a while, will you? I’ve been terribly busy, and I haven’t had the time to even walk them for two days.”

My head drops, and my shoulders slump. “Love to.”

I turn around and enter their room, which would be most dogs’ wet dream. I’m fairly certain Wag Avenue, the elite store for dogs, came in and decorated the large space especially for them.

“Hey, guys. You want to go for a walk?” I attempt to inflect some sort of excitement in my voice.

Bette’s ears are always pointed and on alert, like her dogs.

The two Egyptian Pharaoh Hounds’ ears perk up, and they hop off their toddler-size loungers. I grab their leather collars, pink for Jasmine and blue for Jackson. Bette has no originality, even in her dogs’ attire.

Escaping through the back door, I inhale the cool fall air that breezed into New York a few weeks ago, mixing with the stench of trash. But I would rather endure a few minutes of this than have to pass by Bette’s office again. As I slowly stroll down the alley, the foul smell soon disappears, leaving me with only the warm sun heating the back of my neck. The dog park is only a few blocks away, and I’m happy the punishment, as Bette sees it, frees me from her for an hour.

I wrangle Jasmine and Jackson through the black iron fence, and I unleash them to run around. Completely exhausted, I plop down on a nearby bench and pull out my phone. Of course, a half-naked picture of Todd, that he posted himself, is the first thing on my News Feed on Facebook. He’s starting to develop a big head, and his abundance of selfies in front of the gym mirror is slightly annoying. Laughter erupts out of me when I read his caption: You need me to come over and put out the fire I just created?

“That’s a beautiful sound,” a male says as he winds around the bench.

I look over from the corner of my eye to find Davis taking the seat next to me with an English bulldog at his feet.

“Oh . . . hi,” I stutter.

I straighten my back against the warm metal as he bends over. A sweatshirt and jeans cover his body with a pair of sneakers. This casually dressed Davis is easier on the eyes than the chef-jacket or suit look I’ve admired him in all week.

His head twists my way, and he smiles. “Hi.” His tone is smooth and sexy.

His attention veers back toward his dog, and my eyes drift to his exposed back where his sweatshirt has risen up. His white underwear is embroidered with Flint and Tinder across the waistband. It costs as much as the blouse I’m wearing.

He finally unhooks the dog and leans back on the bench, his arm resting along the back. The hairs on my neck rise as I’m on high alert from the closeness of his fingers to my exposed skin.

“You look nice today.” His eyes take in my black blouse, black slacks, and black heels.

It’s Bette’s dress code.

“My other job.” I shrug. “I know. Drastic difference than the usual white.”

“I might have to think about changing the dress code for CHOPs. You look pretty sexy in black.”

I watch his eyes rake over my body again, and my stomach does a giant flip.

“Pretty sexy?” I give a cocky attitude, not sure why such a foreign side of me emerges in his presence.

He leans closer to me, and my breath hitches as the scent of his cologne wafts around me.

“If I told you what I was really thinking right now, I’d have to fire you.”

Before I can truly appreciate the presence of him so close to me, he’s back on his side of the bench. My neck scalds like boiling water, and heat flushes up my face from his flirting.

“Why is that?” My voice trembles, but he doesn’t skip a beat.

“So you wouldn’t sue me for sexual harassment.” He laughs.

I love the sound of him chuckling at his own wittiness.

“Oh.”

He finally accomplishes the reaction most receive out of me—mute. I’m not the sassy, funny-comeback kind of girl.

“Your dog doesn’t seem to be very into the park.” I nod at the bulldog lying down on its back under the tree while all the other dogs are running around, chasing one another.

“Yeah, he’s not much into exercise. I bring him here for a change of scenery. Plus, usually, there’s no shortage of women here.” His eyes light up in humor when he looks over at me.

Is this where he picks up his women? At the dog park?

“I have to say though, today, I’m feeling pretty damn lucky,” he says.

My shoulders tense when his fingers play with the collar of my blouse.

“Why is that? Do you usually have to carry—what’s your dog’s name?”

“No. Apollo might rest once we get here, but he manages the five-minute walk.”

He leans closer again, and my whole body stiffens.

“I’m lucky because you’re here. My day will just go downhill after this.”

I’m not sure how to respond.

Do I say ’fuck it’ and sleep with my boss? God knows, I’d bet he’s worth it a hundred times over. The dream is tempting, but I have bills to pay, and sleeping with Davis would only bring the red stamp on the outside of the envelopes in my mailbox.

I divert the topic to a safer subject. “How did you come up with Apollo? Are you some NASA junkie?”

“Nah, I just thought it sounded manly. What do you think?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug. Trying to stay composed and uncaring is slowly becoming harder with every interaction with Davis.

“Which one’s yours?” he asks, looking around at all the dogs jumping and running back and forth in the small confines of the space.

“None of them,” I answer.

He scrunches his eyebrows. “Are you just here to meet some hot guys? I guess it’s your lucky day then,” he says, complimenting himself with a wink.

A girlie giggle escapes my mouth.

Seriously, Amelia, hold yourself together.

“Maybe.” I smile over at him. “Those two big brown dogs over there, basking in the sun.” I point to Jasmine and Jackson, sitting upright with their backs straight and noses raised, facing the sun.

Davis nods.

“They’re my boss’s dogs. I was late today, so the punishment is always to take the dogs to the park. Although, I’m thinking it’s not much of a punishment today,” I say, flirting back. I couldn’t help myself; the words just spilled out of me. Damn, I need to get on the same page as my mind.

Brain and vagina must agree, I silently instruct them.

“So, you don’t run late only for me?”

“No, I’m an equally shitty employee,” I joke.

But he doesn’t laugh. He stares at me for a few beats, making the atmosphere tense but electrifying. His eyes search mine, and I allow myself to become lost in his warm and welcoming chocolate-colored irises.

He closes our moment with a shake of his head. “Can you watch Apollo for me?”

“Um . . .” I fly back down to reality. “I really need to get back to the gallery,” I say, rising to my feet.

“Please.”

He places his hand on my arm, and goose bumps travel up my skin from his touch.

“I’ll only be a few minutes.”

I nod, knowing I’m not about to tell my other boss no, even when I’m not on his time.

I sit back down on the bench, and Davis disappears through the iron gate. Not wanting to read about Todd’s workouts on his abs or biceps, I decide not to check my Facebook account, so I sit in the silence, basking in my own spot of the warm sun. The days are starting to grow shorter, and soon, fall will be here. Might as well enjoy not having to be bundled up with gloves and hats to stay semi-warm.

Maybe Todd’s idea from last night isn’t so bad. Being swept up with Davis in order to help make Todd’s dream of opening his own restaurant happen sounds pretty damn good. After all, it could greatly benefit me.

Davis was right; it took him all of five minutes to get back. He’s smiling from ear to ear with two scones.

Handing me one, he claims his seat again on the bench. “This is the best cinnamon-and-apple scone.”

The warmth from the freshly baked pastry heats my palm. I twist around and spot the food truck on the corner.

“They park here every day at this time. I wish I owned a coffee house just so I could sell these.” He takes a bite, and his eyes close from the happiness the pastry brings him.

I tentatively nibble mine, and the cinnamon and chunks of apple mix in my mouth. Davis is right. It’s the best scone I’ve ever eaten, and it would go great with a hot chocolate on a cold morning. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Davis’s eyes pinned directly on me.

“So, what do you think?” he eagerly asks.

“It’s okay.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No . . . I love it. It’d go great with a cup of hot chocolate.”

“It would.” He nods in agreement. “Next time, I’ll make you my hot chocolate to go with it.”

“Nah. You pick up the scones, and I’ll make the hot chocolate.”

He tilts his head, confused, as if I’m challenging him. It’s almost like he’s asking himself how I could make something better than him.

“I didn’t know hot chocolate was something bartenders made very often.”

“It’s not. I wasn’t always a bartender. Being the only girl with four brothers, surviving cold New York winters, I learned fast that a cup of hot chocolate could warrant some peace and quiet. It’s probably the first drink I ever learned to make.” I bite the inside of my cheek. I just rambled on about fucking hot chocolate, like Davis gives a shit.

“What do you care to wager?”

“Wager?”

He leans in closer and whispers, “I did an apprenticeship in Italy. I make a mean hot chocolate, too.”

“What does the winner get?” I sit up a little straighter. I never turn away from a bet, especially one I won’t lose.

“Let’s use our talents. If I win, you take me on a tour of your favorite art pieces in the city. If I lose, I cook you whatever meal you want.” He slides closer to me, placing his hand out.

I stare at his open palm and look back to his eyes. The hope and eagerness he displays make me think he might throw the competition just to spend the day with me.

That only has me agreeing instantly. “Deal.”

I shake his hand, and a wide grin forms across his mouth.

“Apollo!” he calls out while his eyes stay on me, unnerving me to the core. The small dog waddles over to us. “Saturday, after-hours. Do you need any special ingredients?” he asks, releasing my hand and standing up.

The way the waist of his jeans hugs around his hips makes me wish I could hook a finger and pull him close, so my hands could explore every ripple of his stomach.

“No,” I breathlessly respond, hypnotized by his stare.

“All right. Have a good day, Amelia.” He winks and turns around.

I don’t watch him leave the park. Instead, I sit there, trying to figure out what I got myself into. Regardless of the winner, is this a date? No, it’s just a friendly bet between two people, right? An employee and her boss. Right?

* * *

I drag myself up the steps to the apartment. These are the days I wish I had a boyfriend waiting on the other side of the door for me with a candlelit dinner. I can practically smell the imaginary sulfur from him blowing out the candles before we’d take our filled wine glasses to the couch. Then, he’d wrap my feet in his hands, massaging them back to life after I’d spent a day in high heels, as I’d sip my wine and complain about what a bitch my boss was. If I’m venturing off to Neverland, the spoiling from my prince would happen after my very successful art show instead of a day spent with Bette.

My daydream continues unfolding in my mind as I insert the key into my lock and open the door. Suddenly, I’m jarred into my real life.

“Hey, Lia!” Tatiana screams over the blaring Beyoncé.

She’s stirring a wooden spoon in a pot, and the whole house smells heavenly. My mouth waters, knowing it’s chicken marsala. I realize I don’t need a man—I’ve got Tatiana. She knows me best anyway.

“What made you cook?” I toss my bag and keys onto the stool and then weave past the island to meet her.

She takes the spoon out of the pot and positions it in front of my face. “Taste.”

Steam rises from the light-brown sauce, and I blow on the mushroom to cool it down before my lips tentatively cover the spoon. My eyes close, and I inhale a deep breath from the skill of my talented roommate. “So good.”

She smiles and stirs it again. Sorting through the stack of mail, I spot my credit card bill, and my gut clenches when I remember that shopping spree two weeks ago. That cute outfit for Saturday night doesn’t seem worth it now. Thank goodness the tips at CHOPs have been steady. It’s a profitable bar, and I need to make sure I don’t jeopardize my job.

I climb on the breakfast barstool and watch Tatiana comfortably move around the kitchen. Her confidence in everything she does always amazes me.

“So, when did your dad drop off the food? Or was he here all day, cooking it?”

She whips around and places her hand over her heart, as though I’ve offended her. A boisterous laugh erupts. Pointing the wooden spoon at me, she says, “You know me too well, Amelia Fiore.”

“I’ve known you since the ninth grade, and you can make five things. Chicken marsala isn’t one of them.”

“Hey now, I try new things. There was that one time I made the flan for Spanish class, remember?”

We both laugh.

“You are talking about the hard brick of substance resembling tofu, right?”

“It was beautiful.” Her lips pout, and her shoulders slump.

If I didn’t know her so well, I’d think I’d upset her.

“No, it wasn’t, Tatiana.”

Her eyes peek up at me, and a small smile sneaks out. “It really was awful.”

I hop down from the stool and place my arm around her shoulders. “You have far better talents than cooking. Let’s leave the kitchen to Todd.”

She nods, and I move to grab some bowls while she finds a bottle of wine. We go about our routine as though we were a married couple. Tatiana knows everything about me and accepts me fully. I was lucky to find her wandering, lost in the halls, our freshman year of high school. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

“So, tell me about CHOPs.”

I sigh.

“What? Spill it. I’m in desperate need to get out of my own life right now.”

“It’s my boss, Davis Morgan.” I place the bowls next to the stove.

Tatiana hands me the ladle. “That guy from that cooking-contest show? He’s hot.” Her eyes widen, and she shakes her body.

“Yeah, and he’s my boss. I can’t help but think he’s been flirting with me, like he wants more than an employee-boss relationship.”

She glances over to me as the corkscrew pops the wine bottle open. I know what she’s thinking.

I debate in my head if I should even tell her about Todd’s proposition last week.

“Stay away, Lia. You need the money, and it’d never end good.”

I sigh again and take our bowls to the table. Then, I slump over the counter, watching her fill two wine glasses.

“It’s hard, Tati. Men like Davis Morgan aren’t exactly lined up outside the door for me. Hell, no men are within a five-mile radius.” I lay my head down in my arms.

“Lia, you are beautiful, and one day, a prince is going to waltz up to that door and knock. You’ll know he’s the one you’re supposed to be with.”

I peek up at her. “I’m starting to think you live in Fairytale Land.”

Her jaw clenches, and her face stiffens. “You are worth so much more than you think. Davis would be lucky to have you. I just think it’s a bad idea to date your boss.” She picks up the wine glasses and ventures over to the table.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so down. It’s nice, though. When he flirts, my whole body reacts—my heart races, my skin pricks—and all I want is more.”

She comes back over to the counter, placing her hands on my upper arms. “I know, Lia, but it’s my duty to warn you. That’s all. If you decide to date him, then I want to hear all the juicy details, too.”

She smiles, and I return one.

“Thank you.”

Her arms tightly squeeze around me as she hugs me in to her. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s eat. My dad didn’t want it to go cold, and he dropped it off an hour ago. I had to stir it forever until you got home.”

I laugh and follow her to the table as I wish her confidence would rub off on me a little.