Always Be an Us (Pink Hotel #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

E mma

I take a deep breath, staring at my harried face in the mirror of the bathroom of the Tiki Bar.

My heart is pounding in my chest, and despite the late afternoon chill, a thin sheen of sweat slicks my hair to the back of my neck.

I’m rattled.

My best friend Tate Moon sometimes hosts weekly yoga sessions in the parking lot of the Presbyterian church on Main Street here in Laketown. She dragged me to a session once, and I try to remember some of the words she uses that are supposed to calm your stress.

"I am one with the universe," I say to my reflection, then frown. That doesn’t help me in my present situation.

How about, "I honor my body and its abilities."

My reflection stares back at me, and a 'Really?' expression crawls onto my features. That doesn't help either.

Because while I do honor my body and everything, that's not going to stop me from murdering burger guy at table fifteen.

I've wanted to murder him for the last hour or so.

And if I thought I could get away with it, I would gladly dishonor my body with the act.

I pull out my phone from the back pocket of my shorts and Google, ‘cool yoga phrases that help not kill people.

Then I scroll down the list until I find one that fits my situation.

"I can overcome any challenge," I recite, then take another deep breath staring into the mirror again.

"I can overcome any challenge." I say it again, and again, till it sinks in. I also draw in breath through my nostrils and release it through my lips, the way Tate taught me to.

Surprisingly, my heart rate slows and the biting irritation in my brain settles. The murderous urge starts to ease.

"I can overcome any challenge," I tell myself for the final time. "Even the customers sent from hell to test my patience."

There’s a knock on the door. "Honey? Are you gonna be in there much longer? I just took my Miralax and want to get things moving. "

I recognize the voice of one of our regulars, an elderly woman lovingly referred to as Mrs. Peach because of her short, round appearance. Her voice brings a smile to my lips.

"Yeah. I’m done." I turn on the tap and wash my hands, before opening the door again.

She stands hunched over her cane, peering at me carefully. "You doing okay, darling?"

"Yeah," I answer. "Stressed out of my mind but okay."

She nods. "Well then scooch on out. I need to do my business."

"All yours." I sidestep her as she enters, and my eyes fall on table fifteen and burger guy again. His back is turned to the lake, as if he couldn't care less about the incredible view of endless blue, flowing easily onto the grassy shore.

Instead, he's staring off at a wall, leaning back in his seat, with a phone pressed to his ears. His other hand is wrapped around his Manhattan, routinely swishing the contents.

The frown on his face tells me he's not enjoying the phone call very much.

Then again, he doesn’t look like a man who enjoys anything much.

As I walk through the Tiki Bar absently, I continue stressing about him.

I knew he was some kind of trouble when he walked in here with that James Dean dark hair to match the dark beard around his lips and dark eyes that see right through you. He’s wearing a creamy button-down shirt along with casual slacks.

He has the air of a wealthy tourist.

For one thing, the watch. I don’t know exactly what brand it is, but I know I've seen it in magazines before, gracing the wrists of several celebrities. It costs a fortune, but he doesn't look like he’s too careful with it. He knocked it against the table, like he couldn't care less if it got damaged or dropped off his wrist.

In California, I learned about dudes who dress like him, with that casual air of indifference. They’re usually freaking loaded.

And something tells me this guy is a little more than that.

Probably why he’s such an ass.

A bell rings at the counter and Yule, our cook, gestures to the tray on the counter, and he, like me, has a faintly irritated look on his face. I don’t blame him. It’s the fifth time he’s had to cook the same order. And not only is it wasting our resources, it is also wasting his time.

I navigate my way around the wooden and thatched tables in the Tiki Bar, stopping at the counter to pick up the tray. Then I paste a smile on my face before I turn around and head back to table fifteen.

"Well, sir," I say in my usual cheerful tone, placing the tray on the table. "The food is hot and ready. We have your medium rare Tiki burger and fresh Tiki fries. Hopefully, it’s more to your liking this time." I can’t help the bite in my tone that attaches itself to the last sentence.

He pauses whatever he’s saying on the phone and glances at me. I blink, dumbstruck, unable to look away.

Suddenly my heart is racing for a whole different reason than irritation.

Why on earth do all the worst men have to be so damn attractive?

Seriously. The guy looks like a movie star, with a straight nose and sculpted cheekbones of a Greek David. His nose is broken at the tip, like he's been in a fight or two but somehow it only adds to his appeal, making him handsome rather than pretty.

And those lips…

A man shouldn’t have lips that pouty at the bottom. The top lip is thinner, practically a straight line, but the bottom lip looks soft and inviting, even when it’s fixed in a permanent frown.

A rapid knock on the table brings my attention back to reality. And that’s when I note that he’s staring at me.

Heat spreads across my face. How long was I watching him? Did he notice I was staring at his lips?

"Did you hear anything I said?" he asks in that James Earl Jones voice of his.

"Um…" I don’t know how to answer, but he saves me by gesturing to the burger that now has the top bun removed.

"This isn’t medium rare," he states. "The meat is practically mooing."

"You said the first one was as hard as a hockey puck." Frustration lines my words. "And the second one was only barely better than that, but still not edible. The third one had too much garlic and the fourth didn’t have any at all."

"Yeah. And this one is too rare." He stares at me unapologetically, raising a single eyebrow. "And if you’re frustrated by that, imagine how I feel."

I bite my lip against acerbic words, wishing Rick was here. He would know what to do. Rick is the manager of the Tiki Bar, but today he's off somewhere hunting with Buck Shoreton.

Sadly, I’m in charge.

I hate being in charge.

"Well then maybe our food is just not to your liking," I say through gritted teeth, taking the diplomatic route. "How’s the Manhattan though?"

"Tastes like overly sweet horsepiss."

I gasp, offended.

Now, waitressing isn't my strong suit. I’m only doing it because Carly couldn’t come in today, and we can’t afford to have anyone cover her.

But mixing drinks... that's my forte. I'm a bartender, a pretty good one if I say so myself. I studied bartending in California and I also painstakingly prepared this guy’s cocktail with our best whiskey because I was trying to impress him.

I know how picky these out-of-town folks can be about their drinks. I wanted to show him that while we may not be able to afford the best brand of whiskey, we small-town folks do okay for ourselves.

"Sweet horsepiss?" I ask when my mouth starts working. "Did you just say that it tastes like sweet horsepiss?"

"Yeah. You sound surprised."

I cross my hands over my chest. "Well, no one has ever complained before."

"Because they probably don’t know any better."

True but rude to mention.

Another ding on his phone drags his eyes from mine and starts typing, which is good because now I can think clearly again.

"Look the drink is tolerable," he says as he types something on his phone. "Just get me another burger. And tell your cook I can give him a recipe if he wants one."

Thinking about what Yule's reaction to that request would be almost makes me laugh, but I shake my head instead.

"I don’t think so," I tell him.

"You don’t think so what?" he asks without looking up.

"I don’t think we can make you another burger."

He stops typing to look at me again.

This time, I steel myself against his eyes, standing my ground.

Really, my Grandpa's tiki bar can’t afford to turn away customers in our current financial state, which is why I’ve tried so hard to appease this guy. But I can’t keep wasting valuable resources on trying to make the Goldilocks' porridge of burgers for this asshole. Rick would probably have thrown him out three burgers ago, but I'm a pushover.

"You're denying me service?" he says, and I almost sense a quirk in the corner of his lip, like he was just on the verge of a smile.

He probably enjoys the torment he’s putting us through.

"I just don’t think we have anything you’ll like," I answer smoothly. "I’ll get you your check."

"No need." He rises from the seat and straightens to his full height, which is towering over my five-foot-four frame by nearly a foot. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hundred-dollar bill. "That should cover it. Plus a tip, for the inconvenience."

"Oh no, you don’t have to." Now I feel bad for trying to get rid of him, even though I shouldn’t.

"No, keep it."

"That’s almost a two hundred percent tip. I can’t take that."

Take it, an internal voice screams. You probably need the money more than he does.

But I ignore it, reaching for the cash, calculating his change in my head.

Which ends up being a big mistake.

Because as I grab the money my elbow jams into the tray and the rejected burger goes flying, landing right on his slacks.

I gape staring in horror as the burger then falls to the ground, leaving behind a massive, greasy-brown stain on his cream khakis.

"Jeez." There’s not a single trace of amusement in his voice now. "You were already kicking me out, you didn’t have to throw food at me on top of it."

"I didn’t." I shake my head, still in partial shock. "I’m so sorry! It was an accident. Here let me–"

I grab a napkin from the table and start dabbing the stain, but somehow it only makes it worse, spreading the mess across the fabric.

Two large hands wrap around my wrists and halt my harried movements.

"You’re making it worse," he says and his deep voice once again sends a languorous heat flowing through me.

I look up and find my gaze is ensnared in his. His eyes are an interesting color, not quite black but too dark to be brown. Are they like a dark blue? Is that a fleck of gold I see? I'm not sure.

And those lips framed by his beard...

My eyes travel there next.

I can’t stop staring at them

I don't know if I imagine that his tongue comes out to lick the bottom one. Or that his eyes flicker to my lips.

Or that they're actually getting closer, the arms around my wrist tightening, his eyes darkening.

The ringing of a phone, his phone, breaks the moment.

And then suddenly, the man backs away and releases my wrists like he got burned.

There's a single moment of silence as we stare at each other, both shocked and horrified by what almost happened.

And then, before I can say anything, he's gone.

It’s a fifteen-minute walk to my home, and I enjoy every second of it. Summers in Laketown, Michigan are beautiful and fall is even better. We’re nearing the end of July, so we’re in between the best seasons, with the reds tinging the corners of leaves, a constant gentle breeze blowing and the sunset turning the top of the lake into iridescent orange.

"Grandpa!"

As I get closer to the cottage along the shore of the lake, I wave at the spry, elderly man in the distance, his conical Asian-style straw hat (a.k.a. “Chinaman’s hat” around here) shielding his features. He's by the side of the lake, setting up his boat to go fishing, and he waves back. When I get closer, I spot the smile on his wrinkled face.

"You're home early," Grandpa Crane says, his green eyes twinkling.

"Yeah. We closed early because no one else came in. Plus the plumbing is messed up and I needed to call Rick to get the plumber."

I don't tell my Grandpa that the toilet is likely backed up due to Mrs. Peach, because I don't want to embarrass her. Grandpa isn't exactly known for keeping secrets and the whole town would know by nighttime.

Besides, the poor woman was mortified enough about the whole thing. I tried to calm her nerves and tell her it was okay. But internally I was a little bummed out because I knew this was going to be another expense.

The expenses keep piling up at the tiki bar, and we're not getting enough customers. At this rate, we won't even be breaking even anymore.

And then there's all the debt I'm carrying from college, all to not even graduate.

Disappointment and self-loathing churn in my stomach. This is all my fault.

"How was work, honey?" Grandpa asks, drawing me from my morose thoughts.

"It was fine," I say. "Except I dropped a burger on this one guy."

"What guy?"

"Some out-of-towner," I tell him. "I was embarrassed at the time, but now I'm not so sorry about it. He was rude as hell." And hot as hell. But I don’t mention that part.

Grandpa chuckles. "You don't have enough patience for people, honey. And you have a temper. Just like your father."

"I thought Mom was the angry one."

"Never," Grandpa answers. "My baby had the patience of a saint."

That's not what the people in town say, but I smile. I love it when Grandpa tells me stories of my parents. It makes me feel closer to them even though they've been gone for years now.

"Tell me again how they met," I ask because Lord knows I need something to boost my mood.

And Grandpa loves to tell stories. I climb into his boat and sit, readying myself for it.

"Well, it all started on a stormy night," he begins. I let his voice drone, surrounding me and burying my problems.