6. Lennon
6
LENNON
“C
hef, the family would like to offer their compliments on the meal,” Jessica said as she dipped into the kitchen and grabbed a cup of water.
Seriously, what was with the Griffith family? They ate at the restaurant together way too often. A handful of them would pop in to eat almost every day, and it wasn’t just the married couples. It was the brothers eating with the sisters-in-law. Sometimes it was Mrs. Griffith with her daughters-in-law. Sometimes it was Mr. and Mrs. Griffith with their grandkids.
After a week working at The Kitchen at the Griffith Brothers Ranch, I could count on four things: death, taxes, the Griffiths sending their compliments, and CJ avoiding the restaurant at all costs.
I looked up from the expo line. “Do I have to go up?”
She gave me a pitiful look. “Sorry. Chef DeRossi made me promise to make you play nice with them before he left.”
Yeah, after he gave me a brutal dressing down for losing my shit on CJ in front of the entire Griffith family.
It wasn’t like I could tell him why we went at each other like cats and dogs. I just had to take the warning and choke down the hate.
I groaned under my breath. “Julian, cover expo until I get back.”
Julian, the guy I had manning the grill today, moved over to oversee the plates going out. Lunch service was almost over, thank God, which meant he could manage both stations.
“Sure thing, Len,” he said. His wandering eyes looked me up and down while I made sure everything was in its place.
Zach, the saucier on shift today, lifted his eyes and looked between us.
“That’s Chef Maddox,” I said, correcting Julian as I pulled my apron off and mentally counted down the minutes until I clocked out.
Service through the beginning of the week was slow, so we operated on a limited menu. Most of the guests at the lodge checked out on Sunday, returning to their lives. The new wave of weekenders wouldn’t show up until Thursday or Friday.
I rushed to the Griffith family’s private table and braced myself for well-meaning niceties that would only slow down my day.
Cassandra was dining with Mr. Griffith today. His silver hair rustled in the breeze that danced across the rooftop. An empty chair sat between them with a mostly finished plate at its setting. Probably Mrs. Griffith.
“How was everything today?” I asked as I approached the table, donning the veil of practiced confidence.
I had watched Chef DeRossi recite that question millions of times. It put everyone at ease and started the conversation, but kept it to the point.
“Excellent,” Cassandra said as she dabbed her lips. “How’s everything downstairs?”
“Running smoothly.”
“Glad to hear it. Chef DeRossi put together a great team.”
“I agree,” I said, turning to Silas Griffith. “How was your lunch, Mr. Griffith?”
“Spectacular, Chef Maddox. You’ve got a real gift, sweetheart.”
Being called sweetheart made me cringe a little inside, but I tamped it down. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as a shadow grew over the table like a bad omen. I knew it was him before he spoke.
“Business must not be too good if the cooks are doubling as servers,” CJ clipped, still hovering at my back.
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Stop being a dick.”
I choked down the desire to slap him with a snappy retort and, instead, put on my employee-mandated manners. “I hope you enjoyed your meal, Mr. Griffith,” I hissed through gritted teeth.
He crossed his arms and shifted behind me, making my spine turn electric. I could practically see that stupid smirk on his face. “That pained you to say, didn’t it?”
His cologne pained me. It’s what I smelled on my skin after I left the bar that night. Scent was a powerful memory vault.
I pursed my lips and addressed Cassandra and CJ’s father. “If you’ll excuse me, I should get back downstairs. You two enjoy the rest of your day.”
A hand trailed across my lower back as I turned and faced the wall of ornery cowboy attitude. “What about me?” he prodded. “You don’t want me to enjoy my day?”
A slow smile curled at the corner of my mouth as I lifted my chin so my words stayed between us. “You can have the day you deserve for getting me in trouble the other night.”
He chuckled quietly. The sound was dark and promising. “What’s that saying? Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen?”
“You set foot in my kitchen, and you’ll be on the menu. I’m good with knives, cowboy.”
He cut his eyes toward me. “I think you’re forgetting whose name is on the building, trouble. That name means something around here, and it’s one you’ll never have.”
“Like I’d even want it.”
“Go fuck yourself,” he hissed.
“I’d say the same to you, but from the way your head is up your ass, it looks like you’re already doing a fine job of fucking yourself.”
Cassandra snorted, and I realized our hissed jabs weren’t at all discreet.
“Stay out of my way, cowboy,” I clipped as I brushed past him. Our hands touched for a split second. I cursed under my breath as the sparks between us danced in the afternoon light.
Rule Number One: Committing crimes is not a group project. Do that shit by yourself and leave everyone else out of it.
Rule Number Two: Don’t start fights. Finish them.
Rule Number Three: Don’t try to hustle a hustler.
“I’m sorry, Hon. With your record and no credit history, it’s against our policy to rent to ya.”
I gritted my teeth and plastered on a pleading smile. “I have references from my employer and my former roommates. I always pay rent on time, I’m clean, and I’m very, very quiet. I work a lot, so I’m not home to make trouble. I don’t have any pets and I don’t smoke. I moved here for a job, and I need this apartment.”
I usually wasn’t one for begging, but I was running out of options.
The old lady across the desk at the property management office sighed and turned to her computer, clicking through a few pages.
Sweat beaded across my body as I nervously tugged on the long sleeves that hid my tattoos. I had taken out my nose piercing, lightened up my face with a little makeup, and pulled my hair back so it was mostly one color.
The lady turned back and gave me a sad shake of her head. “Sorry. If it was only the credit, I’d give you a pass. But a violent offense is something I can’t overlook.”
“There’s a letter from my former parole officer that vouches?—”
“I’m sorry, darling.”
I left the rental office with my tail between my legs and headed for my car. The afternoon sun was blazing, even though it was a week past Thanksgiving. Then again, December in Texas was a far cry from December in New York.
I, for one, wasn’t complaining.
Three rental company rejections in the span of an hour-and-a-half were cause for a pity party. I needed to figure something out fast.
Someone six-feet tall wasn’t meant to sleep curled up in the backseat of a two-door sedan.
Hallmark movies lied. Small towns sucked.
I had always been able to find somewhere to rent or a couch to crash on in the city, even if they weren’t the best options.
The rental rejections stung. Maybe I had tipped off some backwoods phone tree that warned every landlord within fifty miles to ignore my application.
Bright red hair had me stopping in my tracks as I hurried back to my car. The color was too specific to be coincidence. The woman was too strikingly familiar. She turned, and sharp eyes met mine. I couldn’t quite place her, but a heavy sense of déjà vu cloaked the distance between us.
I darted into a coffee shop, bolted to the bathroom, and locked the door behind me, thankful that it wasn’t a multiple-stall situation.
I could still hear that sinister voice that had lodged in my brain since I was a terrified teenager.
There were some acquaintances that I never wanted to see again.
I counted fifty Mississippis, then unlocked the door and opened it a crack. There was a redhead in the lobby with a mini-me beside her, but it wasn’t the woman from the sidewalk.
Maybe I had hallucinated.
I blamed it on the unusual autumn heat, and stress about finding somewhere to live.
A bulletin board hung on the wall between the bathrooms and the lobby hallway. I crept out and studied it for a moment, grabbing a few flyers advertising rentals and roommate inquiries.
“Lennon?”
I jumped at the sound of a woman’s voice. The redhead had walked over and was smiling at me.
“Depends on who’s asking,” I hedged.
She laughed. “I’m Rebecca Griffith. I usually go by Becks. I’m Nate’s wife. I don’t think we’ve officially met, but I was at the grand opening.”
Griffith.
Right. I had seen her a few times around the restaurant, but we had never formally swapped names.
That’s when I realized there was a horde of Griffith women in the lobby.
Cassandra was sitting in the corner, regally looking over her subjects. Mrs. Griffith was on the bench seat in the window with Becks’s daughter on one side of her and a two-year-old boy on the other. Brooke, the equine program director I had met during orientation, had an oversized muffin resting on top of her baby belly.
Becks smiled warmly. “You should join us.”
I didn’t have time for coffee, and I was at my limit of professionalism for the day. I wanted to scream, cry, and throw a fucking pity party at how unfair life was. But I didn’t have time for that either.
“I should get home. It’s been a long day.”
“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Becks said. “You work for the ranch. That basically makes you family.”
The last thing I wanted was to be “basically family” with her jackass of a brother-in-law.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said as I excused myself, and dashed out to my car.
“Home” was a corner of the parking lot at the twenty-four-hour gym where I reluctantly shelled out twenty dollars a month in exchange for a nationwide membership.
I tried to use cash as much as I could, but some things were unavoidable. I wasn’t off the grid, per se, but I was cautious. Twenty bucks wasn’t bad when it meant I had access to showers, WiFi, and a locker room whenever I wanted.
For once, I was thankful that it wasn’t winter in New York. I crossed my fingers and hoped that I’d find something permanent before the chill made its way to Texas.
I pulled down the shades to black out my windows and made sure to lock myself inside.
I grabbed a makeup wipe from my gym bag and scrubbed off the absurdly pink-tinted shades I had dabbed on to look presentable.
When it was dark, I’d go inside, walk a slow mile on the treadmill while my phone charged in the locker room, then call the numbers from the rental flyers I had found at the coffee shop.
I crawled into the backseat, slid into my sleeping bag, and stretched out as best as I could. Endless shifts on my feet at the restaurant had jacked up my back. The seat belt receptacle digging into my hip didn’t help.
The shirt I had been wearing that night at the bar was balled up by my head. Earthy notes of nutmeg, cinnamon, and cedar lulled me into a trance. My boiling contempt for CJ Griffith’s attitude turned to a gentle simmer as the scent of him chipped away at my stress.