Chapter 8
Liam
I can’t believe Britain’s sitting in the passenger seat of my car. Right now. It’s like getting struck by lightning, twice. What are the odds?
I can’t stop myself from looking over at her any chance I get. It’s only a 6-minute drive from the house to the restaurant, but apparently I can’t keep my hands to myself when it comes to her because I reach over to her side of the car and rest my hand on her thigh. I give her a gentle squeeze with my hand to get her attention, and when she doesn’t shy away from my touch, I don’t remove it even when she turns her head to look at me.
It’s like my body is operating independently of my brain. I’m not mad about anything I’m doing, it’s just that I don’t even think about what I’m doing until it’s done. Like hugging her and kissing the top of her head when she was crying. It’s just instinctual. When I saw the tears in her eyes, something in me caved in, and I needed her way more than she needed me to console her.
I meant what I said when I said sorry. I am really fucking sorry. She didn’t say the words that she forgives me, but I feel like her agreeing to get dinner with me is a step in the right direction. Seeing the hurt on her face tonight, it makes me want to do things for her. Anything to make up for my actions all those years ago. God, I hope I get the chance. I’m sitting here looking at her when I realize I squeezed her leg to get her attention. I should probably ask a question or say something. Anything.
“So, that’s a nice Porsche you’re driving.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I immediately realize how lame that sounded. Really Liam, you’re trying to talk to her about her car?
“Yeah, it, um…it was a consolation prize.” She pauses, thinking over her next words. “His assistant got an engagement ring, and I got a Porsche.” Shit. Definitely the wrong thing to talk about then. I squeeze her leg again, gently, and say, “I’m sorry,” but I’m not. I'm glad, and incredibly relieved that she’s single. But then I’m also pissed that he hurt her. What the fuck is going on with me?
She just smiles and responds with, “I’m not.” All it takes is those few words and a heat starts growing in my stomach, and heading straight for my groin. I’m fucked.
“Well, now that I’ve royally screwed that up,” I say. Thankfully she laughs at my attempt to come back. “Why don’t you choose where we go tonight? You have two options — choose wisely,” I advise with mock authority.
“Okay, you’re going to have to help, though, seeing as I haven’t eaten at one of them, ever. And the last time I had Maggio’s was when I was ten.”
“Maggio’s is exactly the same now as it was then. The beer’s cold and the pizza’s even better. The restaurant, Colton’s, is surprisingly good for being a middle-of-nowhere lake town. Cocktails are passable, but their top-shelf selection is good. They have different specials every day. I highly recommend getting it; you’ll never eat the same thing twice. Oh, and they have a jukebox.”
“This is good intel. But tell me this, which one has better people watching?” A girl after my own heart.
“Colton’s, hands down. If some of the regulars are there, there’s a high probability you’ll witness an impromptu line-dancing lesson.”
“Oh my god, yes!” she practically squeals.
“You have chosen wisely, grasshopper,” I say in all my infinite wisdom.
The inside of Colton’s hasn’t changed much over the years. The owners have come and gone, but none of them ever seem to do much to the interior. The vibe is very if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Nearly every inch of the space is knotty pine, from the booths, to the tables, to the bar top. The walls are all exposed log covered in lit-up neon. Booths line the perimeter of the space, with seats all upholstered in camel-colored leather. There’s a couple tables in the middle of the large dining area, which also doubles as the dance floor. And then there’s the main event, the bar. It takes up nearly the entire back half of the building aside from the kitchen. In the summer, it’s standing room only, but tonight’s a good mix of open tables and bar space, but still a healthy crowd. Hopefully this appeases Britain’s desire to people watch.
This is a seat-yourself establishment, so I motion for Britain to choose her pick of the litter. Before she even decides I know where it’s going to be, the bar. She moves over and picks a spot with buffer spaces on either side of our two stools. She wants to be in it, but she also wants to be able to hear her date talk. Is this a date?
“Is this spot okay?” She looks at me with a smile.
“It’s perfect,” I say, taking her in as she hops up on to the stool. Her eyes are roving all over the place, soaking it all up. And she’s got her gorgeous smile out for everyone to see, like she’s happy to be here. I love that she’s wearing sweats right now. I don’t think I’ve ever worn sweats on a date before, but somehow I don’t feel a bit out of place or uncomfortable so dressed down. Why do I keep referring to this as a date?
Rick walks up to Britain, throwing down a cocktail napkin in front of her and then me. He gives her the up-and-down once-over, and now I’m really glad she’s wearing sweats. I’m suddenly feeling very possessive.
“Hey, man.” Rick looks at me and nods his head, “Who’s your friend?” I look over to Britain, and motion with my hand to let her answer herself. I’m not exactly sure what she’s going to say. The leasing agreement clearly says London Scott, but I can clearly see that I’m sitting with Britain.
She holds out her hand for a shake, smiles and says, “Britain Palomino-Scott.” Rick takes her hand, giving a nod of approval. I’m sure I’ll get the full grilling next time I’m in here alone.
“Rick, pleasure’s all mine.” He clears his throat, “Well, Britain, what can I get for you?” I continue looking at her. I always think what someone orders to drink at a bar can tell you a lot about them, and I’m dying to know what she gets.
“Can I please have a Coors Light with a lime? And then to eat, I’ll take whatever the special is, thank you.”
“You don’t even want to know what it is?” Rick asks, a bit taken aback.
“Nope, I’m good.” She smiles, then turns to face me, waiting to hear my order, but I’m just sitting there like an idiot with my mouth hanging slightly open.
“Uh, I will also have a Coors Light and the special of the day,” I say to Rick who gives me a look that clearly says don’t fuck this up, buddy. He’s probably recalling the one and only time I ever ate with Tori. We came here after a late night at the office that was leading to what I hoped would be a good night at my house, but she insisted we stop to eat first, which was fine. However, Tori ended up throwing a real big fit, which isn’t the least bit surprising now that I know her better. First, her cosmo wasn’t chilled enough, then her salmon was overcooked, and when the crowd got thick and someone knocked into her and their beer got on her shirt, she flew off the handle screaming at the dude about silk. Suffice to say, it was a very enlightening meal.
Rick sets down our beers, but doesn’t wander too far from where we’re sitting. I shoot him a look that says mind your own fucking business and he scoots a little bit further down the bar.
“So, I’m glad to hear you’re not on the lam or anything.” She gives me a look of utter confusion, accompanied by a head tilt.
“London Scott? Ring any bells?” I ask, and she bursts out laughing.
“Oh, that. No, not on the lam in the slightest. My assistant does all my reservations, and sometimes she likes to mess with me.” She shrugs her shoulders. “It’s a good chance to see what names would work as a stage name or alter ego.” Now it’s my turn to laugh.
“So of the names, which one’s the winner?”
“I mean, London is pretty high up there. It’s a good play on my real name, but uh, the favorite so far is Randi, with an ‘i’. I’ve been Randi on six of the last eight business trips I’ve been on.” She takes a sip of her beer, then says, “Oh! And Bambi, I liked Bambi for a long time.” Who is this woman? With each word out of her mouth, I’m more and more intrigued. She leans in, “I’ll let you in on the inside joke with that one, me and Bambi have the same level of coordination.”
“Alright, Bambi, what have you been up to for the last, oh, 15 plus years?”
She sobers a little and asks, “The cliff notes version okay? I don’t think there’s enough hours left in the day otherwise.”
“Cliff notes version works,” for now.
“Okay, so I moved to D.C., got married, had two beautiful girls, finished my degree, helped my then husband build his company, helped him sell his company, then he filed for divorce earlier this year to, as you know, leave me for his assistant. And then I just quit said company last week, and decided to come home to work through some personal shit that’s been weighing on me for years.” She doesn’t even let me respond, only making her demand, “Your turn now, go.”
“Uhh, well…” I’m dumbstruck right now. I’m beginning to realize just how devoid my life is of any personal accomplishments. “Well, I’ve worked this entire time. Mostly on Broken Ridge, which has been really successful for us, and now we have a development starting in Sonoma, which is my next big thing. And, that’s about it.”
“No wife? No kids? No girlfriend? Or boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm, seems like there’s a story there,” she muses.
I chuckle, “Not really. I was just always working, and then one day I realized I may have missed the boat.” As in today, I realized today. I missed the fucking boat.
“Tell me about your kids.” I’m genuinely interested.
“Okay, so Caroline’s 15 and Elodie’s 14 and-”
I cut her off, “Whoa, so your kids are like almost full grown?!” I was expecting to hear about toddlers, maybe grade schoolers.
“Yup.”
“And where are they right now?”
“At boarding school.” Wow, I’m honestly just really fucking impressed with the life she’s built. Raised two kids, worked for her degree, worked at her company. I hate how she says “his company.” You’d have to be a fool to not see she was a big part of it.
“Boarding school?”
“Yeah, but it’s not as bad as it sounds.” I don’t think it sounds bad, I think it sounds perfect. Send your teenagers off, have them come back as adults. But of course, I don’t have kids, I wouldn’t know what that’s like.
“It’s only 20 minutes away from my house in Virginia, so I can still go to their sports games and stuff. Caroline plays softball, second base. And Elodie plays volleyball, she’s a setter. They're both quirky, and fun. Both good kids. Well, I guess they’re more like young women now than kids. Their semester ends in six weeks, so that’s how long I’m here for.”
“Got it. Do you like living there, in the D.C. area?”
“Nope.” She pauses, “It was just a means to an end and I got stuck.” I feel a bit guilty about that last part. I’m trying to keep the conversation light, I just want to keep enjoying this night with her. It hits me that I really am enjoying being with her. Nothing fancy or extravagant, just her company, some sweats, in a small bar. It’s fucking perfect.
“Enough about me, spill the beans.” She motions with her hand around the room, “Who are the regulars and how do I get them to start dancing?” And I’m laughing again.
“The trick is to put something good on the jukebox, then let it do the work for you.”
“Too easy. Point me in the direction, please?” She hops off her stool and I put my hands on her shoulders and redirect her body until it’s pointing to the far right corner. With a gentle tap on her perky bum, I tell her “Go get em’ tiger.” She turns around with pinkened cheeks and gives a quick smile before setting off towards the jukebox.
My phone starts vibrating so I pull it out of my pocket and see that it’s Matt. I hover over the accept button for a moment before declining the call. Not tonight, man. I’m going to do something for me tonight, for the first time in a really long time.
She’s been at the jukebox for five minutes and counting, and I’ve been staring at her just as long.
“Ahem.” Rick clears his throat, stealing my attention. I turn to face him as he sets down two identical plates. “Today’s special is a prime rib sandwich, aus jus and horseradish aioli on the side, with the house specialty, garlic parm fries.”
“Thanks, man,” I say, getting ready to return my attention back to Britain.
“So what’s her deal?” He motions with his chin to where Britain’s standing. I’m not surprised he’s curious. I don’t bring dates here. When I do date, it’s typically somewhere in town, which is where the women I see normally live. It makes it more convenient for them and also prevents me from having to bring anyone back to my own place, which I like. The only exception to all of that is Tori, who wormed her way into my house on two occasions.
“She’s my new tenant, that’s all,” I say, hoping he’ll accept that and leave us alone.
“So chances are good I’ll see her again? She single?” Rick asks, and my blood starts boiling.
I ground out my reply, “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Fuck, no. I don’t want Rick asking her that, or talking to her. He’s a hell of a lot closer in age to her than I am. His arms are covered in full sleeves of tattoos, he’s got messy and long, light brown hair that he sometimes wears up in a bun. He’s attractive, if you’re into those sorts of things.
Luckily, Rick takes a hint, and says, “Nah man, just making conversation.” He’s wearing a smirk on his face. Damnit.
“You baited me.”
“Maybe,” he says, shit-eating grin on full display.
We’re interrupted by Britain, “WOW. This looks amazing.” Her eyes are wide, never leaving the plate as she slides back on to her stool, unrolling the napkin and utensils in front of her.
“Thank you.” She looks up at Rick and gives him a smile. And I feel it right then, I’m jealous. I only want her smiling at me, for me. Because of me.
Just as she takes her first bite, the jukebox clicks on sending “Neon Moon” by Brooks & Dunn wafting through the restaurant. She lets out a satisfied moan, clearly enjoying her food, and I get hard instantly, like I’m 13 years old.
Rick’s still standing in front of us, on his side of the bar, thoroughly enjoying Britain who’s thoroughly enjoying her food.
“Nice song pick,” Rick says to her.
She holds her hand over her mouth to finish chewing on her bite. Then says, “Thanks, this is just the warm up, though,” she says with a wink. Don’t wink at him.
She continues on, “I was told I might be able to incite people to dance, if I set the mood correctly.”
“You like to dance?” Rick asks.
“Oh god, no. I was actually born with two left feet.” Her voice is completely serious and Rick raises his eyebrows, questioning. “Okay, not really, but um, my brain and my feet aren’t synced up. I’m not a dancer, I’m a people watcher.”
“Voyeuristic, huh?” Ricks asks with that damn smirk again. Britain’s cheeks go pink. I clear my throat, trying my best to convey go the fuck away in Rick’s direction. He lets out a chuckle and says to the both of us, “Enjoy your meal.” He knocks his knuckles against the bar top, then flashes us a smile in farewell. Fucker.
I realize I should probably eat something instead of staring and we spend the next couple of minutes eating in companionable silence. The sandwich is good, but I’m not even hungry, at least not for food. I throw my napkin on the bar top, exchanging my utensils for my beer. I hear Britain before I turn to look at her. She’s gently humming along with the sounds of some Clint Black song. She’s slowed down on eating and is just picking at a couple of fries, so I re-engage her.
“Do you listen to a lot of country music?”
“Nope,” and she laughs. “I couldn’t tell you a single current country artist or song, but Georgia didn’t raise a fool. I cut teeth, literally, to Alabama and Reba McEntire and George Strait.” She takes a brief pause. “I actually haven’t listened to any country music since I left here. Too many memories.” She wrinkles her noise at that last sentiment. Then, as if on cue, an old Alabama song starts to play. I just nod my head in a reply.
From one of the booths at the side, Sandy stands up and starts moving the empty tables to the sides of the room. I nudge Britain’s arm to alert her to the movement. She looks up and sees me and her eyes go wide with excitement.
“Oooh, it’s happening,” she says in a whisper laced with anticipation. Jim leaves his booth and leads his wife, Sandy, out to the dance floor. They pick up dancing like it’s as natural as breathing. They move across the floor perfectly in time to the rhythm and each other as Jim twirls Sandy, eliciting a gleeful laugh. They’re in their early 70’s now, but still move like a pair of 20 year olds. Guess that’s what it's like when you’ve been partners for four decades.
Britain repositions herself with her back to the bar, beer in hand to watch as a few other locals slip out of their booths and off their stools to join in. She looks beyond thrilled sitting there, drinking her beer, swaying lightly with the music as the others dance. And I’m sitting there smiling at her like a fool. A damn fool.