Chapter Eighteen
Wells
Rock Bottom is usually the one place where I can lose myself in work and customers and overcome even the worst of moods, but the noise outside my office door Sunday evening irritates the hell out of me.
I’ve been trying to review a vendor report for an hour, but all I see is the fear in Victory’s eyes when I suggested we stay at her place.
I’ve been trying to give that look another name, but nothing else fits, and I just don’t get it.
Fuck. That’s not true.
I do get it. She lived there with Harvey.
I can see how having me there might make her uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t frighten her.
The idea that it does makes me wonder what’s really going on.
I eye my phone and consider reaching out to her for the millionth time this weekend.
But knowing I caused that fear hurts like a bitch, and if I misread everything about us so far, I’m not about to put either of us in that position again.
I flip the phone over on my desk and turn back to my computer, trying to focus on the report.
But it’s Victory’s face I see, her energy I feel shifting and icing over as it had Friday night.
I wish I could stop thinking about her, but I worry about her.
Is she upset, or did she just bury herself in work again?
Or is she thinking about me, too? Wishing she’d asked me to stay?
Don’t be a fucking fool. If she regretted it, she would have reached out.
My chest constricts with the thought I’ve been trying to shove down deep.
Has she just been using me as a distraction?
A fucking boy toy? I can’t reconcile that idea with how close we’ve gotten, but the devil on my shoulder says that’s exactly what I was to her, and that makes me want to strangle the imaginary fucker.
But what if that little fucker is right?
What the hell do I know about love?
Maybe Victory saw that in me, and that’s where the fear came from. It’s one thing to knock around the city together, but really letting me into her life? Into her private sanctuary? That might scare the hell out of her because she doesn’t think I’m capable of more.
The thought cuts like a hatchet.
I push to my feet and turn to look out the window behind my desk, hoping the view of the ocean will take the edge off my shitty mood.
My office overlooks the outside seating and the dockside area, where the waitstaff is hustling between boats and the restaurant and, just beyond, the vast blue sea kisses the horizon.
How many times have I imagined showing Victory around the island, taking her out on my boat, hanging out at bonfires with our friends?
I can’t pinpoint when that desire started any clearer than I can pinpoint exactly when I began feeling like something in my life was missing.
I thought it was my internal drive to succeed, to prove I could do more than what I had already accomplished.
But I’m on the cusp of doing just that, and I know that’ll be a huge accomplishment and satisfy my urge to do more, but there’s still a gnawing inside me.
An emptiness I know will not be eased by success alone.
This new and different ache is ten times more oppressive than anything I’ve ever felt.
It’s soul-deep, not driven by the fear of my family falling apart or misguided teenage love.
Holy shit . Is this history repeating itself?
Am I destined to fall for women who aren’t going to love me back?
No . I refuse to believe that. There’s no way the affection Victory showed me wasn’t real.
I felt it in her touch, heard it in her voice.
I saw it in the way she looked at me. There’s no way I could have imagined all of that.
A knock sounds at my door, jerking me from my thoughts.
“ What? ” I bark, turning as the door opens and Meghan steps in.
Fuck . Meghan is one of my mother’s friends from college.
She has raised four children and ran a restaurant in Boston for a decade before getting divorced and coming here to start over.
The last thing she needs is the brunt of my bad mood. “Sorry, Meghan.”
“You should be.” She closes the door and stalks over to my desk.
Her dark, shoulder-length hair is side parted, her makeup minimal, and the narrow-eyed look she’s giving me is slightly maternal.
“You’re allowed to have a few crappy days, so I’ll let it slide this time.
” She taps her fingernail on the desk, then points at me.
“But straighten up, because next time I might not be as forgiving.”
“I knew there was a reason I hired you.”
She crosses her arms. “To keep you in line?”
“No, because if you won’t take shit from me, you won’t take it from anyone else.”
She feigns a dramatic sigh. “And here I thought it was for my pleasant demeanor and good looks.” She doesn’t skip a beat, snapping right back into work mode. “Have you finished looking over the vendor report yet?”
“Not yet. Is there something specific you need me to review?”
“I negotiated higher discounts with our two newest vendors, but they’re based on paying within ten days of receiving the invoices. I gave you the figures for our last few orders and the estimated savings over a twelve-month period.”
“Good job. I don’t need to review it. We can do that during the busy season, and with the right planning, it shouldn’t be a problem in our off-season. You’re on top of the budgets, so I trust your judgment.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your vote of confidence.” Her gaze softens. “You’re usually three steps ahead of me. Whatever’s got you tangled up in knots must be heavy. Anything I can do to help?”
“Just keep holding down the fort.”
“That’s not a problem.” She taps my desk again. “Know what you need?”
Yes. The feisty beauty who slithered into my heart one phone call, one silly game, and one fucking kiss at a time. Gritting my teeth against the heartache that brings, I lift my chin in question.
“You need to get out there on the floor and work your magic with the customers. You can’t hold on to a bad mood when you do that.”
“That’s an excellent idea. I’ll do that, and then I think I’ll head out for the night.”
“Sounds good. I hope your mood improves,” she says on her way out.
I snag my phone and shove it in my pocket.
As I walk around the desk, my gaze lands on a photo hanging on the wall.
It was taken at a beach bonfire in front of the Bistro the summer before Olivier died, and it’s one of my favorites.
I’m roasting marshmallows with some of the other kids.
Olivier is sitting on a blanket with us, his long white ponytail hanging down his back and Abby tucked under his arm.
The older boys are tossing a football farther down the beach, and some of the girls are playing at the edge of the water with our mothers.
My father is standing by the fire with his arms crossed, flanked by Roddy Remington and Steve Steele.
They’re an unlikely and unbreakable trio.
My father, in his dress pants and collared shirt, his serious eyes trained on us.
Roddy with his windblown collar-length hair and beard, sporting cargo shorts and one of his many flowered shirts unbuttoned too far, is laughing, his head tipped back.
Then there’s Steve, one hand casually tucked in the pocket of his jeans, wearing a polo shirt, his attention locked on his wife and girls, down by the water.
Those four men taught me too many life lessons to count.
I can still hear my father telling me to learn from my mistakes and try to do better today than I did yesterday and Roddy saying not to sweat the small stuff.
How many times did Steve remind me that everyone makes mistakes and forgiveness is the greatest gift of all?
I don’t even have to try to hear Olivier’s kind voice telling me to trust my heart.
They instilled so much wisdom, but none of it prepared me for surviving a broken heart.
Jesus . I can only imagine the shit the guys would give me if they heard me say that.
I shove those thoughts down deep and head out of my office.
Music filters into the restaurant from the bar, injecting an upbeat, summery vibe.
As I make my way around the room greeting customers and making small talk, the pit of my stomach burns.
This is the first time in as long as I can remember that my smiles aren’t genuine, and I fucking hate it.
It reminds me of when I was a kid putting on my happy face, and it’s something I swore I’d never do as an adult.
But in this situation, I don’t have a choice.
I spot Roddy and his wife, Gail, having dinner with Steve and Shelley Steele, and Shelley’s mother, Lenore. I head over to them.
“A table full of my favorite people,” I say as I sidle up to them. “I hope you’re enjoying your evening.”
“Wells, we’ve missed you lately,” Shelley exclaims, and the big beautiful auburn-haired woman with a heart of gold gets up to hug me.
“I’ve missed seeing you all as well,” I say, soaking in her embrace.
As she sits down, I put a hand on Lenore’s and Gail’s shoulders. “You ladies look lovely tonight.”
“I have missed your charm, young man,” Lenore says. She has a blond pixie cut and a flair for fashion, as proven by her black silk top, gold scarf, and dangling pearl earrings.
“I’ll have to rectify that and spend more time here.” My gut twists, but I don’t let my smile falter. “Nice to see you, Mr. S,” I say as I shake Leni’s father’s hand.
“You too, Wells.”
I offer my hand to Roddy. “How’s it going?”
Roddy bats my hand away and stands to embrace me, clapping a hand on my back as he says, “You doing okay, son?”
The way he studies my face makes me feel like he can see right through my fake smile. “Yes, sir. How are you tonight?”
“My family’s healthy, and we’ve got good boating weather. All is well on the Remington front.”