Chapter Five
Annabelle
Chase’s fingers closed around my wrist, sending a warm flutter straight to my belly. I wanted to be immune to him. I was trying. Trying hard, but it wasn't working.
How could anyone be immune to a man like Chase Westbrook? Handsome as sin, with messy blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, a tall frame, and corded forearms that told me no matter how much time he spent staring at his laptop, he took his workouts seriously.
Chase looked so much like Vance Winters it should have put me off. Vance was like a brother. I could appreciate, objectively, that Vance was hot, but I didn't go there.
Looking like Vance should have signaled my brain and my body that he was off-limits, but they weren't getting the message.
I needed to get over it. Chase seemed like a good guy, but my instincts with men sucked.
I couldn't afford another mistake.
Literally.
My bank account had only just recovered from the last one.
Squeezing for a second before dropping my wrist, he said, "I'll get that, what do I owe you?"
"I'll put it on your tab," I said as I always did.
"And when are you going to let me pay my tab?" he asked.
I'd never let him see his mysterious tab that didn't exist. I wasn't keeping track of what he owed me. I should have been. I didn't feed people for free, even friends.
Not if I wanted to keep a roof over my head.
I wasn't quite sure why I kept doing it with Chase. I shrugged a shoulder and didn't say anything when he picked up his tray of dishes and followed me back to the kitchen.
"Don't worry, I'll bill you eventually," I said over my shoulder. Lies. All lies.
"As long as you do. I'm not a moocher."
Proving his point, he put the tray down next to my commercial stainless-steel sink and dishwasher and started to rinse and load.
"Chase!" I protested. "I've told you, you don't have to do that."
As usual, he ignored me. He'd told me before that he'd put himself through college waiting tables. I could tell he knew his way around the inside of a restaurant kitchen.
Not looking at me, he said, "I've got this. Go do your thing in the front and you can come help me finish when you're done."
I propped a hand on my hip and scowled at him.
See? This is why I didn't charge him. What kind of guy was he that he’d work all day, come in here and work some more, and then take on my dirty dishes?
I couldn't figure out what to do with Chase Westbrook. He was too good to be true. I knew all about how that usually worked out.
"What happened to the guy who usually closes with you?" Chase asked.
I sighed at the thought of Grover, the hipster, man-bunned college student who usually worked the second shift and closed with me. He was dating Penny, my barista on the early shift.
The two of them had started out fine and were sliding downhill fast. I leaned against the prep counter and glared at the dirty dishes.
"I think I'm going to have to fire him. He begged me to put him on days with Penny, his girlfriend. If I didn’t let them work together they said they’d quit. The last thing I need right now is to lose half my staff."
"You've got me for tonight," Chase offered.
For a second I forgot he wasn't talking about helping with the dishes.
My eyes lingered on the collar of his T-shirt where the narrow black lines of a tattoo peeked out. That tattoo was becoming an obsession. I wanted to see it, but to see it, Chase would have to take off his shirt.
A shirtless Chase was dangerous to my well-being. I didn't date. I wasn't looking for a guy. And if I were, the last thing I needed was a hot, rich, workaholic. Been there, done that, and had the empty bank account, shattered heart, and divorce decree to show for it.
I left Chase in the kitchen and went out front to attack the counters, the espresso machine, and the pastry cases. I didn't stop until every surface gleamed. When the area behind the counter was done, I started wiping down tables, then stacking the chairs upside down so I could do the floor.
Usually, the mindless rhythm of closing the café was relaxing, despite the hard work involved.
There were no customers in line and the place was quiet except for the faint rattle of glass and silverware coming from the kitchen.
Sometimes I played music, but sometimes I liked to be alone in the quiet.
When I closed by myself it took a lot longer, and I knew when I was done I'd head upstairs to my tiny studio, crawl into bed, and a heartbeat later my alarm would go off at four AM. I needed these brief pockets of quiet to recharge before the day to come.
Movement from the kitchen caught my eye. I looked over to see Chase walking out.
"Did you sweep the back already?" he asked.
“I’ve got it," I said, straightening and tucking the handle of the broom against my chest. "Chase, you don't have to help."
"I know I don't have to help," he said, shrugging his shoulder and shoving one hand in the back pocket of his jeans. "I don't mind. If I save you some time you can get another hour of sleep tonight."
"Are you saying I look tired?" I asked, teasing, but not.
Who wants to be told they look tired? Not me, even when I knew it was true. I didn't need to look in the mirror to see dark smudges under my eyes. I could feel my energy flagging.
I’m one of those annoying people who pops awake early in the morning pre-caffeinated and ready to go. I run on high speed right up until I drop into bed at night. I’ve always been like this. I’m not a napper and I’m not a big fan of sitting still.
But lately, with Grover skipping out on second shift and Penny no-showing to open a few times, I was stretching myself too thin, and I knew it showed.
"I would never tell a beautiful woman she looks tired," Chase said, "I assumed purple smudges under the eyes was a new trend."
"Hardy-har. You think you're funny, but you're really not," I said.
He was pretty funny, but this conversation was sliding perilously close to flirting. I didn't flirt. I'd put a ban on flirting, friendly smiles to customers aside.
Flirting led to dating, and dating did not go well for me. I did not need to start building castles in the clouds about Chase Westbrook. He seemed like a great guy, but he was bad news.
He grinned at me, his blue eyes flashing with humor. "No, I know I'm not funny. Hasn't stopped me yet."
He said the last over his shoulder as he headed down the hall to the utility closet where he knew he’d find the mop bucket and industrial strength cleanser for the floor.
I thought about telling him to stop, but there was still so much to do. If he wanted to help I might as well let him. I'd send him home with an extra brownie to soothe my conscience.
My phone rang, the buzz from my back pocket startling me. I didn't get many calls at this time of day. Most people who knew me knew I'd be busy closing down the café. Pulling it from my pocket, I glanced at the screen.
The name I saw stabbed into my heart. TM. Tommy Mosler. The last person I wanted to talk to. Today, or any day. I hit the button to decline the call and shoved the phone back in my pocket.
I knew what he wanted. That he should ask me for anything after all he’d put me through was beyond my comprehension. And that he wouldn't let it go—that he kept calling and stopping by—was making me a little crazy.
Things had been hectic enough with Grover and Penny shifting their schedules. I didn't need crap from Tommy on top of it. I tried to push him from my mind as I went back to sweeping, but, as always, he made it impossible.
My phone began to ring again. Chase was in the back, thank God, and couldn't hear. If I didn't answer, didn't let him have his say—again—he’d keep calling. I didn't want to explain the non-stop ringing phone to Chase.
With a glance over my shoulder at the kitchen, I pulled my phone from my pocket and stabbed my finger at the answer button.
"What do you want?"
"I want to know why you have to be so rude," Tommy said. "It wouldn't kill you to answer my call."
Thinking that it might, I said grudgingly, "I don't have anything to say to you. I want you to stop calling me."
"Do what I'm asking, and I will," he said, trying for charm but unable to hide his irritation.
"I want you to listen to me very carefully, Tommy," I said. "I cannot get you an invitation to Jacob and Abigail's wedding."
"Don't bullshit me. You're always so fucking selfish. After everything you’ve done to me, I'm asking you for a small favor. Insignificant. You've been friends with Jacob Winters practically since the cradle. If you asked him to add me to the guest list—"
"Stop," I interrupted.
It was always like this with him. He turned everything upside down. I was selfish? What I'd done to him? Was he nuts?
Three years and he could still twist my head around until I felt guilty because I didn't jump to do everything he wanted. It would be a lot easier to move past him if he didn't keep shoving himself back into my life.
Squeezing my eyes shut and taking a long breath that was supposed to be calming but wasn't, I said, "The guest list was finalized months ago. They can't add anyone else at this point. And even if they could—"
"Of course, they can. When you have that much money you can do anything you want. Two more people won't make that much of a difference. They won't even know we’re there."
"Why do you care? You don't even like Jacob and you don't know Abigail."
"Because anyone who’s anyone in Atlanta will be at that wedding and it looks bad that I'm not invited. You’re making me look bad."
The aggression drained from his voice and he tried charm again. "Annabelle, sweetheart, we've been through so much together. You used to support my career. Can't you help me now? This one time?"
But it wouldn’t be this one time. Today it was the wedding. Later it would be something else. Being connected to the rich and powerful, however peripherally, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
I stared at the floor between my feet and tried to remind myself of all the reasons this man had no part of my life anymore.
I didn't owe him anything. Not even the time I was taking on this phone call.
"This isn’t my problem," I said. "And if I called Jacob right now and asked him to add you to the guest list you know what he would say."
"Not if you convince him you really want me there."
"Do you think he’d believe that? Do you think there's a chance in hell Jacob would believe that I want you anywhere near me?
The first thing he'd ask is how you're twisting my arm.
Because he knows you. And, in case you missed it, he hates you.
He doesn't want you at his wedding. He didn't invite you because he can't stand the sight of you.
I am not going to ruin his day by asking him to give you access to the most important moment of his life. "
"Of course," Tommy said sarcastically. "Of course, because it's all about you, right?
You and your deep friendship with the Winters family.
You have them wrapped around your finger—they'll do anything their precious Annabelle wants—but the second a real person, someone you owe, asks you to help them out—"
I dropped the phone from my ear and hung up. Pressing the power button and holding it down I cut off Tommy's redial, already lighting up the screen. I'd only swiped the broom across the floor twice when the café phone started to ring.
Leaning the broom against the table, I walked behind the counter, picked up the receiver, said, "Stop calling," and, ignoring the bluster on the other end of the phone, hung up to disconnect the call. Then I unplugged the phone from the wall.