Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROOMIE
Harlow
“Atable by the window just in time for the sunset.” I take a seat as the host pulls my chair out.
I smile at the young man and wonder if he’s of legal drinking age. “This is perfect.”
He swipes the tented napkin and drapes it over my lap before presenting me with a menu and the wine list. “Your server will be with you shortly.”
I smile and take in his name tag. “Thank you, Blake. Are you from Winslet?”
He looks around before lowering his voice. “Does it show? I took a ma?tre ? class online.”
My hand flies to my chest. “No. You were perfect. I didn’t mean anything bad, I swear. I’m so sorry.”
“Good.” Blake exhales a sigh of relief. He leans in closer and admits, “Before this, I worked at the deli shop on Main. I had to wing it at the interview. YouTube’ll teach you how to anything, including become a fancy ma?tre ?. Then I practiced with my grandma.”
“You’re a natural. Congratulations on your new career. I thought you had years under your belt.”
When he shrugs, his smile is innocent with a boyish charm, and he looks even younger than before. “Thanks. Grandma is a tough customer. She made sure I was ready for the interview.”
I offer him my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Harlow.”
His eyes widen as he shakes my hand. “Oh, I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are.”
Great. “I’ll be here for a while, so I’ll see you around.”
“Yes, ma’am. Hey, the special tonight is mushroom risotto. I didn’t even know I liked mushrooms before I worked here. It’s something about the truffles.” He lowers his voice again. “I don’t know what those are, but it’s the bomb.”
“Well, I love mushrooms, and I just decided I’m entering my carb era. I’ll give it a go.”
Blake beams. “Cool. I’ve got to get back to work. And, hey, sorry about your wedding. Everyone’s talking about it.”
Well then. I can’t even be mad about knowing everyone is talking about me. It was my doing after all. “I suppose they are. But I’m good. There’s no reason to be sorry.”
Blake purses his lips together like he’s doing everything he can to keep the words from spilling out. I can tell it’s hard. He’s a talkative guy.
He looks sheepish and guilt falls over his features. “I shouldn’t have gossiped.”
I shake my head and wave it off. “Hey, it’s not gossip if you’re talking to me about me, right? You’re good.”
He exhales a breath of relief. “I didn’t think about it that way. It’s just, we all worked the wedding. That Albert guy, he was really mad. We all saw it. I’m pretty sure you made the right decision.”
I think about how I should be on a private jet zooming around the world to my honeymoon at this exact moment. Instead I’m here with young Blake. “Trust me, I absolutely made the right decision.”
He nods emphatically. “Do you know if the magazine is still going to run the story? We have bets going on who got in the shots in the background. The pool is over four-hundred bucks. It’s exciting.”
“I’m not sure. Sounds more exciting than my experience. If I hear, I’ll let you know.”
His smile is wolfish and friendly. He also doesn’t mince words. “You’re so cool. I’ll spread the word—about the bet, that is. But I’ll also let them know you’re nothing like your dickhead fiancé.”
“Ex-fiancé,” I correct him. “And I can’t lie, it’s a relief.”
He backs away with a low wave that’s cute and not at all nonchalant like he’s going for. “Don’t forget about the risotto.”
I shake my head. “Oh, I won’t.”
And with that, he disappears through the live greenery and trees that fill the dining room. The ceiling and walls are all glass and look over the lake. Now I know why the restaurant is called The Greenhouse.
When my waiter stops by, he isn’t nearly as talkative as my new friend, Blake.
He returns with a glass of sparkling water.
I don’t look at the menu and order the special with a glass of wine.
If Blake is going to spread the word that I’m nothing like the dickhead, I need to do everything I can to work on my small-town public relations.
Hell, I should care about what the world thinks of me after the fiasco I orchestrated yesterday.
But I don’t have the energy to care. I do, however, want to win over the little town of Winslet.
I dig my cell from my purse when I feel it vibrate in the seat next to me.
Chrissie – Day one is in the books. I hope to have something to report tomorrow. Tell me you’re still alive. I can only deal with so many life-and-death calamities at a time.
Me – I’m anxious to hear what they say. And, don’t worry, I’m alive.
Chrissie – Good. Because you didn’t follow my orders. It’s been hours, and you have yet to alert me on your condition.
Me – I got some sun this afternoon. Is that what you want to know?
Chrissie – Breathing, Harlow. I need to know you’re alive and well.
Me – I’m good. You got your package?
Chrissie – Oh, I did! You spoil me. It wasn’t necessary, but you know I’ll take it.
Me - You’re going to have a lot of downtime. Binge away.
Chrissie – Books and docudramas. I’ll be set for weeks. And you wonder why I demand you update your life status. Where do you think my serial killer obsession comes from?
Me – I thought it was because of my dickhead ex-fiancé.
Chrissie – Him too. Definitely him. Stay alive. I’ll check in tomorrow.
Me – Enjoy the binge.
A glass of red appears in front of me. “Your cabernet.”
“Thank you.”
I tuck my cell back into my purse and pick up the wine. I’m never unplugged. Even when things were good with Albert, we were connected to our jobs and available at every moment.
There’s nothing like going through a life crisis to switch things up. Other than updates from Chrissie, I want to get comfortable in my own skin. I need to embrace my new life without the pressure from the outside world.
The last thing I need is to scroll social media. From what Blake let on, the world is talking about me. I can’t imagine I want to know what they’re saying.
I don’t need that kind of drama getting under my skin. My story is mine.
No one knows.
But, in time, they will.
I’ll make sure of it.
Devon
She sets her fork down and swipes at her full lips.
She’s in a strapless dress that hugs every curve from her tits to her knees. Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, and her skin is sun-kissed from sitting by the pool this afternoon.
It turns out, I’ve spent most of my day studying the American Princess who moved into my suite this morning. And not because I’m some sort of selfless do gooder. Not in the least.
Selfless is the last thing I feel at the moment. Selfish is how I would describe myself. And the more I learn about Harlow Madison, it only makes me crave more.
To anyone else, I’ll play it off as the investigator in me who just can’t stop. But I know better.
Everything about her makes me want more. The more I’m around her, learn about her, watch her...
Damn.
I’m turning into a fucking stalker.
Am I proud of this?
Hell, no.
Have I stopped?
Also, no.
I’ve stood here watching her since Blake seated her.
I was going to have a chat with him about how much he talked her ear off, but Harlow seemed to enjoy it, so I let it go.
The kid can run his mouth. Just last week, he went on for fifteen minutes straight about an antique truck his grandpa gave him that he’s rebuilding.
Americans and their pickup trucks. I’d say they’re obsessed, but I’m not one to talk when it comes to current fixations.
When Blake started telling me about parts and bumpers and chrome, I’m pretty sure he was about to rope me into his next trip to the junk car graveyard.
I had to fake a call from my liquor distributor to escape the invitation.
The kid is too likable. If he asked, I would’ve found myself digging through old cars for a working radiator.
No one can refuse him anything. It’s why I gave him the job when he’d never worked a day in fine dining before walking through the front doors of the manor.
Blake won me over and promised no one would work as hard as he would.
He's kept his promise and added to it. But as much as he hustles, he runs his mouth just as much. It works because everyone loves him. I could take some lessons from the kid if I cared.
Which I do not.
What I do care about is what’s going on with the woman I invited into my home, even though it’s not much of one.
I’ve been pretending to take inventory behind the bar since her server delivered her risotto. Surveillance has been a part of my life since I started with the Secret Intelligence Service. But this is so easy, I can’t even categorize it as that.
I’ve been a lot of things in my life, but never a stalker. That shit is for men who don’t have the balls to make a real move.
My balls are big enough for every man in this dining room, the whiskey bar, and the cigar lounge. But I need to see what she’s doing, who she’s talking to, and if she looks like a person who just did the unthinkable.
And the answer to those questions are boring as hell: eating, no one, and just a big fat, fucking no.
She hasn’t picked her phone up since before she ordered wine.
I press send on the liquor order that’s taken me ten times longer than it should have and hand the tablet back to the bartender on duty. “This should restock you after the wedding fiasco.”
He smirks as he puts the finishing touches on an espresso martini. “Seems guests drink up no matter whether the couple says I do or not.”
“They don’t need an excuse. Speaking of, I’m going to check on the Madison woman.”
“Good luck with that,” he mutters.
What I don’t say is I’ll need it after what I found out today.
Harlow settles back into her seat and stares out at the lake. We’re in the transition hour. The sun is gone, but the stars aren’t out yet. I don’t look around, greet anyone, or take in how packed it is for dinner on a Sunday night.
I can’t take my eyes off Harlow as I approach her.