7. Charlie
Ihave never needed a day off more in my life.
Things have been nothing short of chaotic over the past three weeks, both personally and professionally.
Asparagus Gate was the least of the problems I had to deal with on the job front. Two line cooks quit when Billy tried to teach them how to “properly” cook chicken. Billy also forgot to order butter. It made my life quite hard, but I think it broke Mellie. She was so mad she swore.
And I’m not talking a little one. She dropped the big one.
Then there was the icing on the wedding cake when a bridezilla wanted me to guarantee that no one working her big day was an Aries. She made me pinky promise. Which I did. All while internally laughing my ass off with my April thirteenth birthday.
But in one hour and forty-two minutes, all of that is going to be in the rearview. I’m away from the restaurant for the next two days, and I’m already imagining the glorious things I’m going to do in the next forty-eight hours.
Nap. Eat food I didn’t cook. Binge watch the newest cult documentary. Nap.
I’m going to nap so damn hard.
Things I’m not going to do: Answer calls from the restaurant. Put on a bra. And the biggest thing on the do-not-do list: Think about Simon Banks.
Or his tongue.
Or his penis.
His perfect fucking penis.
Because of course it was perfect. A man like Simon Banks, who gets everything he wants in life, wasn’t going to be randomly cursed with a small, crooked dick. No, he was blessed with a cock that should be sculpted and put in the Louvre for all to admire.
Because life isn’t fair.
I hate it. And him. And I hate that if I close my eyes, I can see him doing all the delicious things to my body that I’ll deny he did until my dying day.
Ugh…why did I sleep with him? Why did I go to his hotel room? What did I think was actually going to happen? That we were going to talk like rational humans and leave with an agreement to never cross paths again?
Stupid tequila. It’s all Jose’s fault.
The worst part of all? Is that when I woke up in the middle of the night, my mind delirious and my body sore and sated, I just let myself lay there against him. His arm was draped over me and for a second I let myself bask in his touch.
Because even though I hate Simon, at one point in my life I thought he was it. The one who was different. The one who was going to prove that good men did exist.
Then I remember what he did and why I’ve cursed his name for years. That’s when I wiggled out of his hold, got dressed, and left in the middle of the night.
This is so damn frustrating. I successfully avoided him for fifteen years. Now he crosses my mind multiple times a day. Which is so Simon. He crawls his way into your life, and then when you’re not expecting it, BAM! He fucks your world up.
Oh, and gives you trust issues that you should probably see a therapist about.
“Welcome to Perks. What can I get you?”
The guy standing in front of the counter slowly turns around, and as soon as I see who it is, my blood heats.
Simon Banks. Rich boy. Dean’s list. Hot, but he knows it. Dressed head to toe in designer labels. The guy everyone on campus knows. Perfectly styled hair and a smile he thinks works on every woman he encounters. I mean, I get why he thinks it works. I’ve watched him flirt with girls in our business class, and I roll my eyes every time they fall for his lines.
“Well, hello there, gorgeous. I was going to say a coffee, but maybe my answer should be you.”
Barf.
I don’t even try to hold my eye roll, which only makes Simon’s smug smirk widen.
“I meant drink. What do you want to drink?”
Simon leans down on the counter so his elbows are resting, but it also simultaneously shows off his biceps. Which aren’t that impressive.
“What else is on the menu? Maybe your phone number?”
Who does this guy think he is? A cocky asshole, that’s who. Because I believe that there are multiple universes and timelines happening at once, and in none of those is the very hot, rich boy asking out the chubby, poor girl from the outskirts of Knoxville.
“I’m not giving you my phone number, Simon. Either order or get out of line.”
Shit. I said his name. I could’ve convinced myself I didn’t, until I see his face light up with the recognition.
“You know my name?”
Ugh! Well, no sense in lying. “We’re in Business Ethics together.”
“Yes!” He slams his fist down on the counter in exclamation. “I knew you looked familiar.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say. “Now, what do you want to order?”
“Your name. Your number. And I guess a coffee.”
“I don’t even want to give you the coffee.”
He flashes that smile I’ve seen him use one too many times. “Oh, come on. Tell me your name at least. I want to say hi to you in class Friday, and I can’t just yell, “Hi, Bug!”
“Bug?”
He points to the headband that I’m wearing, which happens to be red with ladybugs printed on it. “Yes. Bug. Until you tell me your name, that’s what you’ll be called.”
“Please don’t.”
“Come on, Bug. Don’t be like that. I have a feeling this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”
“I have a feeling I want to slap you.”
He gives me a wink. “That’s part of my charm.”
“Stop it!” I scold myself, giving my head a shake. No. No more Simon thoughts. I need to keep things in focus: Surviving work and saving for my restaurant.
That’s what’s important. That needs to remain the focus. Not Simon and his stupid smirk and his stupid mouth and his stupid penis.
I start furiously cleaning my prep station, needing more than ever to get the hell out of here, when my phone rings with a FaceTime call. Normally, we don’t answer calls in the kitchen, but I’m the only one here, and frankly, I don’t give a fuck. Especially when I see that it’s my favorite Nashville event planner.
“Whitley! To what do I owe the honor? Do we have an appointment I forgot about?”
I just saw Whitley a few days ago, and she didn’t mention anything about seeing me later in the week, so I don’t think I forgot anything. Then again, after the past few weeks, I’m surprised I remembered to put on deodorant today.
Wait, did I? I give my pit a subtle sniff.
“No girl, no appointment. Yet.”
“Yet?”
“What are you doing tomorrow morning? Say, eight o’clock?”
Whitley’s smile is taking up her entire face, and I think she’s bouncing in her seat. The woman is always in a good mood—she once told me it was part of her pageant training—but right now I’m pretty sure a rainbow is coming out of her ass. So this is over the top, even for her.
“Why are you so excited?”
“Girl, I think I found you a restaurant.”
I blink a few times, trying to decide whether I heard her right. “You found me a restaurant?”
She nods frantically. “Yup! It’s perfect, and you need to come see it. Immediately.”
My face drops, because I’ve been through this before. There’s always a “perfect” place, but there’s always something that makes it not perfect for me. And I’m not talking about a little makeover or some new plates. I’m talking big things—like affordability. Or walls collapsing in.
“Don’t tease me,” I say. “That’s not nice, and you know it.”
She shakes her head. “No. I swear. It’s perfect. It’s an already established restaurant that’s been open for like forty-some years. It’s an institution, but the owner is retiring. The company that bought it just wants to lease the space, but wants someone to come in and make it a restaurant of their own.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t breathe as I wait for the other shoe to drop. Because another shoe always drops.
“How do you know this?”
“The owner told me,” she says. “She said it was a secret, no one even knows she’s sold, but she was wondering if I knew of anyone who would be interested. Of course I thought of you first.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But I don’t know. I haven’t even begun to save enough to really be ready.”
“No! That’s the best part. The restaurant comes fully equipped. She’s leaving everything. Yes, you might want to change the interior, but when you don’t have to buy the big stuff, everything else is more manageable. And you know the rent in Rolling Hills has to be much cheaper than Nashville. It’s perfect. Please come look at it. Pretty please?”
And there’s the shoe that fell from the sky straight onto my head.
Rolling Hills.
Where Simon is. Well, it’s where I assume he is considering the two times I’ve seen him it’s been with people who live in Rolling Hills.
I knew nothing was perfect.
“Yes Whitley, it does sound great. But I don’t think?—”
“Charlie, please.” Her eyes turn pleading. “Just come look at it. I know how much you hate things at Napoli’s, and I think this would be great. Please? Just come and look to say you did.”
“I can’t.”
“And why not?”
“Because—” I stop before I say anymore. She doesn’t know about my history with Simon. Yes, it was at her wedding when I saw him for the first time in years. But I wasn’t about to stop her in the middle of the happiest day of her life to explain why I had to suddenly leave. After that, I never thought I’d see him again, so why tell her?
And as for our…encounter…last week? No one knows about that. Not even Mellie knows everything that happened.
No. I can’t go to Rolling Hills, even to look. I can’t imagine having to see Simon every day. Especially now that I know the man has a master’s degree in orgasms and a PhD in pussy licking.
“I just can’t.”
“I don’t accept that.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Whitley says, her demeanor now a little tougher. It’s the tone she uses when she needs to get vendors in line. “I’m not asking you to sign a lease. Or put down first month’s rent. Just come and look. Actually, come down tonight so you don’t have to deal with morning Nashville traffic. We can hang out, which we never get to do. I have an impromptu engagement party for my sister-in-law, but the more the merrier.”
A party Simon will definitely be at since I’ve met the fiancé of her sister-in-law, and I know they’re friends.
“I’m not going to go to a party of strangers.”
“Fine,” she groans. “But please come down and look. This place means a lot to this town. I know myself, my husband, and every other resident of Rolling Hills would feel much better knowing that the person who moved into this place wasn”t only going to make it theirs, but also make it part of the community. Somewhere people can go for a treat for their kids. An affordable family night out. Breakfast with friends on weekends. A place for kids to study while grabbing a burger. Maybe where a book club comes to meet up.”
I start to tear up as Whitley describes my exact vision. I told her that once, and now she’s using my own words against me.
How dare she.
“And you think my restaurant fits that bill?”
“You’re the only one.”
This woman is good. Also, like she said, I don’t have to sign anything. And there has to be something wrong with it. That will be my out, and I can put this option, and Rolling Hills, behind me.
“Fine,” I groan. “But no promises.”
I don’t know if Whitley heard that over the squeals she’s making on the other end of the call.
“Whitley? Did you hear me? No promises.”
“Sure, sure,” she says. “Whatever you say.”