Forever With You Page 6

  “How ’bout I do you one better? Why don’t you come on in and take a seat at one of the tables. Give me a few minutes to get the paperwork from my office and I can interview you right now. Graham, why don’t you get Ms—”

  “Emily Leighton,” I hastily supply.

  “Why don’t you get Ms. Leighton situated while I grab an application and a notepad. By the way, the name’s John. John Walker,” he says, extending his hand in greeting.

  “You work in a bar and your name is John Walker?” I have a hard time smothering a laugh.

  His eyes twinkle in amusement. “Why do you think I ended up owning a bar?”

  “Does anyone call you Johnnie?” I don’t have to drink whiskey to know that’s what Johnnie Walker is famously known for.

  “Just my mother,” he says with a wink. “Give me a minute. Graham will take care of you until I get back.”

  I watch him disappear down the hallway and into the back. Without looking at Graham, I’m acutely aware of both his stillness and suffocating silence.

  Say it. Say it now while you have the chance.

  That’s my smaller inner voice. The louder one demands I don’t rush things. Graham’s lie put us in this situation, and there’s an irony to it that’s simply…delicious.

  Our eyes meet. He voice is oddly calm when he speaks. “Leave and I’ll tell him you’re only looking for somewhere you don’t have to work weekends.”

  Instead of apologizing, as I intended, I find myself replying, “I’m in college. Do you really expect him to believe that?”

  Graham grunts. “What does it matter? It’s better than sitting through a bogus interview.”

  What are you doing? Apologize!

  “I’ve actually been thinking about getting a new job.” Don’t ask me which Walking Dead creature has taken over my body, because that’s the only thing that can explain the words coming out of my mouth.

  Graham goes eerily still. His eyes bridge the twenty or so feet that stands between us to drill a hole into my forehead. Probably exactly where he’d aim the bullet if he had a gun.

  “That shit’s not funny.” His voice drops a full octave to issue that warning, fury vibrating around the edges.

  “I’m not joking. I was going to spend next week looking for a new job.” My level tone belies the pandemonium going on in my stomach. Butterflies are being eaten alive by dragonflies.

  He narrows his gaze and walks toward me, his footsteps strangely quiet on the wood floors. My instinct isn’t one of fight-or-flight but of don’t-back-down or take-off-running. I choose the former, knowing he’d never physically harm me no matter how mad he is. That isn’t to say him this up close and personal—tall, broad chest and shoulders— isn’t the tiniest bit intimidating.

  “I don’t want you working here.” His words are a command not a heartfelt wish.

  Thank God, John makes his presence known before he makes an appearance. I quickly drop into the chair closest and place my purse on the chair beside me. I avoid Graham’s stare. Make that glare because it’s so hard I can feel it searing my skin.

  “Graham, why don’t you join us?” And probably because it looked as if Graham was about to refuse, John adds, “I’ll only keep you a few minutes. You know more about what the position involves than I do these days.”

  With obvious reluctance, Graham pulls out the chair facing me and plants his butt in it.

  John hands me the two-page application. “You can fill it out now or drop it off tomorrow if that’s more convenient. It’s nothing fancy. We’re asking for the basics. It’s fine that you don’t have waitressing experience—”

  “But I do. I worked at Mickey’s in San Francisco for a year-and-a-half.”

  John sends Graham a look, eyebrows raised. You were saying?

  If my ex was disgruntled before, he looks even more so now. I should be insulted that he portrayed me as someone looking for a waitressing job with zero experience.

  John turns a wide smile my way. A smile so wide that I notice the tiny gap between his front teeth.

  “Even better. Graham was concerned about the learning curve.”

  Apparently, John doesn’t have a problem with it, though, since he’s sitting here doing an impromptu interview with an applicant he thought would have to be trained from scratch.

  My gaze flits to Graham. His tight jaw gives every indication that he’s grinding his teeth. Hard.

  I could put him out of his misery and tell his boss I don’t want the job. That upon thinking it over, a job like this would be too much for me given my heavy course load. Forcing Graham to listen to my apology is one thing, but working with him would be its own form of masochism.

  “Graham does all the training?” My gaze swivels between them, opening the question to whoever chooses to answer first.

  “When he can, but you’ll be teamed up with one of the other servers for the most part.”

  John is speaking as if I’ve already gotten the job. A job I’m not even sure I want. Working with Graham…

  “Do you have a problem with me calling your old job in California? I do check references.”

  I shake my head. “No problem at all.” Mia, my former manager hated to lose me when I told her I was transferring back east. I’m positive she’ll give me a glowing reference.

  “Graham, do you have any questions for Emily?” He tosses his assistant manager the question without posing any seemingly pertinent ones of his own, and I get the impression he bases his hiring decisions more on his gut than anything else.

  My ex looks at me for a beat. If a look could levitate a human form, I’d be floating somewhere just above the hanging light fixtures. He might not be able to will me away but the cool opaqueness of his stare packs quite the punch. It lands somewhere low in my stomach where the dragonflies have made a meal of the butterflies.

  Abort mission. Run. Get away from him as fast as you can. Nothing you say or do will ever change the way he feels about you. Find your redemption another way. Volunteer at a soup kitchen or a children’s hospital. They’ll appreciate your kindness and commitment. They won’t know the source of the guilt that motivates you. The voice in my head is loud and insistent and draws no opposing voices.

  Say something before he says anything that will only continue this farce of an interview.

  “We’re going to need someone who can work Friday nights and weekends.” His voice hits my exposed skin like a frigid blast of air.

  “Thursday or Friday and weekends,” John amends in a much more amicable tone. Almost as if apologizing for his assistant manager’s brusqueness.

  “If she’s going to be taking over Dani’s schedule, she’ll be working Fridays.”

  Rubbing the goosebumps that formed on my arm, I shift my gaze to gauge his boss’s response. But John doesn’t appear the least bit put out by the correction. “Claire’s been making noises about switching off between Thursdays and Fridays. Something about the tips being better on Thursdays.”

  Graham’s turn.

  His expression remains remarkably composed but I can feel his annoyance, and an impotence that he can’t right this Titanic of a disaster. He’s the captain and I’m the iceberg impeding his progress and threatening to take the whole ship down.

  You may think my analogy is over the top but it isn’t from where I’m sitting. Let’s be clear though, I’m not an iceberg. And if I were, I’d be busily breaking apart trying to move out of the way and apologizing profusely as I did. He has nothing to fear from me. If I were Catholic and this chair was a confessional, I’d be confessing my sins, asking for forgiveness, and accepting my punishment without a word of protest or demur.

  “That’s okay. I don’t have night classes. Either shift will work for me,” I find myself saying. So much for calling off this farce. Honestly, before this is all over, the corner I paint myself into won’t be big enough to fit a mouse hole.

  For a brief second, the fog lifts on Graham’s stoicism. John isn’t looking at him, l
eaving him oblivious to the storm brewing in his assistant manager’s dark-blue eyes. Me? I’m attuned to every breath he takes. And right now, he’s breathing fire.

  John shifts in his seat, stretching his legs out under the table. I automatically shift mine, tucking my feet under my chair.

  “Good. You working now?”

  “At the school library. But it’s only fifteen hours a week.” For minimum wage, and the place is usually as quiet as church during silent prayer. The work is also unforgivably monotonous and the last semester I’d been constantly looking for work to pass the time.

  “You can probably get up to twenty-five here if you can handle it. Think about it,” John says before I can form an answer. “You can see how it goes.”

  I glance at Graham. It sure sounds like the job is mine if I want it. And this has to be causing him all kinds of agony. Which, of course, is not my intention. But working with him might be a good thing.

  For both of us.

  In the long run.

  Convinced I’m not making a huge mistake, I hold up the application. “I’ll get this back to you tomorrow then.”

  John nods, his smile causing crinkling around his eyes. He was probably a very good-looking guy in his younger days. Weight—but not a lot—a slightly thinning hairline and time have undoubtedly blunted his looks.

  “The earlier the better. You’ll save me countless interviews and since time is money… So do you have any questions for me—or us?” he asks, tipping his chin toward Graham’s motionless form.

  For Graham, absolutely not, save the risk of having my head bitten off. I’m lucky frostbite hasn’t numbed my fingers and toes given the iciness of his stare.

  “Should I come by around the same time—before the bar opens?”

  John pulls in his legs and presses his hand on the table, preparing to rise. “Sure. Graham’ll be here.”

  Snatching my purse and clutching my application, I follow his lead and stand. At his proffered hand, mine is soon enveloped in a warm, dry handshake.

  Graham takes his time rising to his feet while I eye him warily.

  If I don’t shake his hand, it’ll look weird. But what if I stick out my hand and he doesn’t take it? Who knows if manners will compel him to do the polite thing. Going by our interactions so far, I wouldn’t bet my A in Creative Writing on it. The guy is a wildcard. An angry, bitter wildcard.

  Stop being such a ninny.

  I obey the voice in my head and swing my outstretched hand in his direction…and hold my breath and pray.

  I note his hesitancy, but maybe that’s because I’m looking for it, as time seems to slow, seconds feeling like minutes. To my heartfelt relief, out comes his hand. My relief lasts for all of a second though. Physical contact with him, after all this time, causes…I’m not even sure what. The feeling is indescribable. It makes me want to flinch. Not because it’s uncomfortable or hurts, but because it’s so acute, and sharp, and is felt so far under my skin.

  In reality, the handshake is inordinately brief and his hand is dry but cool to the touch. His frosty attitude extends to his person. I remember him being hot to the touch so this is different.

  When his hand drops to his side, I want to hide mine away. I want to crawl into a dark corner and lick the wounds he’s ripped open. My fault I know, but still…

  I force a smile on my poor put-upon face that tests its youthful suppleness. It feels dry and strained and sadly, it’s the kind not cured by more hydration or moisturizer.

  “Thanks for this.” I let out a nervous laugh and hold up the application again. “Well, for everything.”

  John bats it away with a negligent wave of his hand. “I should be thanking you. Your timing couldn’t have been more perfect.”

  I refuse to look at Graham but I needn’t have bothered because he’s already walking away, muttering something about being behind and him having work to do in the back.

  His boss walks me to the door, opening it with a hard tug.

  “Thanks again.”

  “Don’t worry about Graham. He’s not a bad guy once he gets to know you.”

  The irony of that remark is tragic. On so many levels. God, if only he knew the truth. And the fact that he’s astute enough to pick up on Graham’s attitude tells me not a lot escapes his attention. I take a mental note.

  “I’m sure he’s not,” I say with all sincerity. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just not terribly forgiving. Hopefully I can change that.

  Chapter 6

  An hour later, I’m back in my apartment still in a state of bemusement over the fact that I’d gone to see Graham with the express purpose of apologizing and instead walked away with an interview under my belt. I can’t believe I might end up working with him, and I don’t know if that’s going to end up being a blessing or a curse.

  The whole thing is unreal. Or is it fate nudging me in the right direction?

  A knock sounds on the apartment door. Changed into my comfy black yoga pants and long, gray sweatshirt, I heft myself off the couch and make my way to the front. A look through the peephole reveals my neighbor Kelsey Montgomery. Like me, she’s new to the off-campus housing, having moved in two doors down at the beginning of the summer.

  “Hey, Kelse. C’mon in,” I say upon opening the door and motioning her inside.

  She doesn’t have to be told twice, treating me to one of her brilliant white smiles as she breezes by me. “I thought I’d drop by so we could catch up.”

  I follow her shapely figure down the short entryway. Just so you know, Kelsey is the quintessential blonde bombshell. She’s a slimmer, less busty version of Anna Nicole Smith, her hair a golden-blonde, her lips pouty and full, and her eyes an arresting blue-gray with lashes lush and to-die-for. Two inches more, and I’m sure my mom would have signed her with her agency in a heartbeat, but at 5’6” she falls shy of the desired minimum height.

  Damn. After all these years away from it, I still find myself summing up women in respect to their modeling potential. I may truly be my mother’s daughter despite my current aversion to the industry I once loved and she’s built her career on.

  Attired in snug blue jeans, a flirty mint-green top, and her feet encased in a pair of brown-leather, Tory Burch sandals, Kelsey manages to make casual wear red-hot sexy. She’s simply one of those girls who oozes sex appeal with every movement and gesture. Needless to say, she’s super popular with the guys, and unlike April, she’s single.

  “You hungry?” I ask, detouring off into the kitchen. “I didn’t have time for breakfast.” I hadn’t had the stomach for it. Now I’m starving.

  “No, I’m good.” She drops into the stool at the counter and props her head in her palms. “Have you made up your mind about Saturday?”

  My mind draws a blank. “Saturday?”

  “The party?” she says, prompting my memory.

  That’s right, her sorority party. She’s always trying to get me to go. I’ve been to a few but honestly, they’re really not my thing.

  “Probably not. I may be getting a new job.”

  Interest sparks in her eyes. “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “Zenith’s. I think it’s mine if I want it.”

  She straightens, smacking her palms down on the counter. “Even more reason for you to come. We’ll have something to celebrate.”

  “Kelse, those parties are your cuppa tea not mine. Plus, if I get a job there, I’ll be dealing with parties every weekend. I won’t be missing out on a thing.” And the makeup of the crowd won’t be exclusive to a bunch of frat brothers, so to speak. There’s something about them. Something I’ve never been able to put my finger on. Just something that’s never gelled with me. That’s speaking in generalities of course. I’ve met the odd exception. Speaking of which…

  “Still have your sights set on Alex?”

  “I do not set my sights on guys.” She air quotes the term with a disdainful sniff and slight flair of her nostrils.

  She’s probably right about that. She
doesn’t need to. Guys usually have their scope set on her.

  “Is he going to be at the party?”

  She shrugs but can’t quite pull off indifference. “He’s invited.”

  I don’t know Alex Benton all that well. He’s a senior and an all-around BMOC. He was in one of my classes last semester. Seems an all-right guy given his BMOC status—usually guys like him are simply overbearing. I do know he’s no slouch when it comes to his studies. I heard his GPA is 4.0 or something near that. Next year, he’s off to law school to follow in his father’s footsteps. That’s one thing we have in common, although I wouldn’t say it’s anything to brag about.

  “Still refuse to admit it, huh?” I tease and set about the business of finding something half decent to eat for lunch. Grocery shopping day is tomorrow, so the pickings are slim.

  “There’s nothing to admit. We’re friends and nothing more. He’s not looking for anything serious and girls tend to be “clingy”. She air quotes that too before returning her hands to the task up supporting her face, her features reposed in a state of dejection.

  “And you’re looking for serious?” Which would be surprising. My friend seems to like to play the field. But then this is Alex Benton we’re talking about and the guy is—to put it mildly—kind of potent. He checks all the boxes and then some.

  Her denial is fervent. Vehement head shaking that turns her hair into a golden-blonde pinwheel hit by wind speeds in excess of fifty miles per hour. The lady doth protest way too much.

  “I’m not looking for anything. We’re just friends, I told you.”

  Yes, with her mouth but not her actions.

  “And why are we talking about him anyway? Tell me about the job. You really want to waitress? Deal with all those—” she scrunches up her nose “—people. I waitressed at IHOP for a year and when I quit, I vowed I’d never do it again.”

  “I don’t mind it.” Abandoning the refrigerator, I continue my food hunt on the spotty shelves of the pantry. Wheat crackers wouldn’t be my first choice, but unless I’m up for sugared cereal, I’m a beggar with very limited choices. I extract the last sleeve from the box and grab a plate from the cupboard.