Chapter 15
Lola
By the time it hits quarter to ten, I’m itching to get the hell out of here.
It’s been a boring and, frankly, depressing shift.
No one goes to a bar on Thanksgiving unless they have nowhere else to go, so it’s been a string of very sad pandas drinking solo.
One guy spent two hours at the bar alternating between Perrier and Bud Light, telling me his entire life story and how every single one of his relatives is dead.
Another asked if he could bring his dog in because it was his only friend. How do you say no to that? I didn’t. I said, “We have to accept service animals, and we can’t ask for verification.” Because I’d rather he abuse that rule than be alone at home. I also bought him a plate of cheese fries.
But now there were just two people at the back playing darts.
They had come in separately and sat at opposite ends of the bar.
The dirty blond ordered a sangria and the brunette a Corona.
I watched them eyeball each other for half an hour before the brunette asked the dirty blond if the sangria was any good, and they started a conversation.
Then the dirty blond moved to sit next to the brunette and now they’re both drinking sangria and using a game of darts as an excuse to brush up against each other.
It’s so damn obvious and so damn adorable.
At least something good has come out of tonight, I think as I wipe down the bar. Omar, the cook, pokes his head into the bar from the kitchen. “I’m done back here and gonna head out unless you need me to stay.”
I shake my head. “No, I just have to sweep and wipe down the tables. I’ve already restocked. Go home. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“You too, Lo.” He smiles and disappears because he’s leaving by the back door like the staff usually does.
I glance at my love connection couple and am happy to see them shrugging into their coats. I smile as they walk to the door together. “Happy Thanksgiving,” the brunette says to me, and I grin back.
“You two have a wonderful night.”
The dirty blond woman blushes, and the brunette woman winks.
I head to the door as soon as it closes behind them, lock it, and turn off the neon sign in the window that says Open. And then I glance out and see a man on the sidewalk a few feet away staring at the front of the bar. Right through the window. At me.
Pete. I can’t see his face because he’s got a big puffy black coat on with the hood up, but I know it’s him. My heart drops into my shoes, my blood gets icy, and I double-check the lock and then back away from the door. I left my phone behind the bar. I need to call someone.
I suddenly feel like an idiot for taking a shift that leaves me here alone.
And that makes me instantly angry because I should be able to take a fucking shift at work without having to worry about being alone.
I grab my phone and hesitate. Who do I call?
The police? They haven’t even bothered to get back to me about the car incident.
And I doubt they’ll take me seriously if I say there’s a guy staring at the bar.
Hiding my phone, I walk back over to the plate-glass windows that flank the door, and yeah…
he’s still there, just staring at the door.
I snap a picture as he stares right at me.
This is so fucking fucked. The fear that races through me is so thick and so strong I can barely breathe.
All my relatives are two hours away. I could call Delia and her boyfriend.
I think they stayed in Portland for Thanksgiving.
I head into the kitchen to make sure the door is locked behind Omar.
I don’t want Pete getting in here. As I double-check the handle, my phone rings, and I jump out of my skin.
I almost drop the phone, I’m so freaked out.
It’s a number I don’t recognize, and I stopped answering those after Pete started calling from new numbers, so I send it to voicemail.
My brain races as I try to think of what the fuck to do.
I walk slowly into the main part of the bar and grab the broom on my way.
I have to sweep anyway but it also feels like a weapon, and it’s ridiculous I feel like I need that.
I slip behind the bar and turn down the music playing through the sound system.
The place is eerily quiet, and I’m not sure that’s better for my nerves.
I glance toward the door again. I can’t tell if he’s still out there, so I start to sweep and move closer to the windows.
Suddenly my phone alerts with a noise so I pull it out of the back pocket of my jeans and check it. It’s the hook-up app telling me I have a message. I open it because it says it’s from Theo, aka Luke_T.
Luke_T
Hey. Are you still at work? I’m on my way there. I have something for you.
Summer_L
Yeah. Still here.
I exhale slowly, eyes moving to the windows, wondering if I’m still being watched.
I grip the broom and force myself to sweep.
There’s motion through the window, and a different figure than before moves toward the door.
Theo Richard. I can see his whole handsome head because he’s not wearing a hooded coat. I drop the broom and rush to the door.
I unlock it, push it open, and as soon as he steps inside, I lock it again. His eyebrows are raised. “You okay?”
I nod and then hug him. He wraps an arm around my back and squeezes. “Whoa. What happened? Did that Pete asshole show up again?”
I swallow the urge to cry because it makes me so angry I’m this upset. Nothing happened! “Maybe. It’s a long story. I can tell you while I finish sweeping.”
“Or better yet, sit your cute ass at the bar and eat the Thanksgiving dinner I brought you while I sweep.” As I step back, he holds up a canvas tote bag I didn’t notice.
I lean in, peek inside, and see a bunch of sweating Tupperware.
“I think it’s still at least a little warm because I had it in an insulated bag on the ride from Silver Bay.
But I figure there’s got to be a microwave in here, right? ”
“Yes.” I sniff, still leaning over the bag and all the yummy Thanksgiving smells of turkey and gravy and… “Do I smell nutmeg and cinnamon?”
“Your mom brought a homemade pumpkin pie that she said was your favorite, so I made sure to pack an extra big piece,” Theo explains, and I grab his face between my hands and plant a kiss on him.
It’s fast, and I pull back before either of us can deepen it, but judging by the way his eyes smolder, he wanted to. I like that more than I should.
I take the bag from him. “You are a king, Theo Richard, and not just on the ice.”
He grins. I walk over to the bar and offer him a soda or a juice. “I’m so full I couldn’t even add water to my stomach.”
He picks up the broom while I pull out the Tupperware and put it on the bar.
I reach through the window to the kitchen and grab a plate stacked to the side.
I don’t care if it’s piping hot, I’m going to devour it.
I grab one of the rolled-up cutlery/napkin combos under the bar and start opening the Tupperware.
I groan. “Oh my god, this is way better than the frozen Trader Joe's enchilada I was going to microwave when I got home. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he replies and starts to sweep.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s fine. I need to move and hopefully burn off some of this dinner, or I’ll be slow as fuck on the ice at practice tomorrow,” he says and pauses to pull off his jacket.
I plate my food and will my heartbeat to calm the fuck down.
I’m still freaking out, internally, over whoever was out there.
My eyes keep lifting the windows and door.
Theo’s eyes keep lifting to me. I pretend I don’t notice and take in the contents of the Tupperware once all the lids are off. “You brought me beans?”
“Those aren’t from the dinner.” He shoots me a sheepish smile. “I know you don’t eat meat, but I wanted to bring you a protein, and I had cooked a batch of my maple brown sugar baked beans earlier in the week. It’s a Richard family recipe. So I threw some in for you.”
“You…” I pause to fight the feelings growing in my chest. “You cook? Impressive for a hockey bro.”
“I just started. Since sobriety,” he explains as I head into the kitchen to heat the beans.
He continues talking to me through the cutout.
“I used to have all my meals prepared and delivered in Vegas. Learning to cook was a cost-cutting measure because I was pretty sure my NHL career was dead. I’ve been pretty good with my money, and have some solid investments, but I’m twenty-seven with hopefully a long life ahead of me so being frugal felt right. ”
“And now that you’re back in the league and making bank?” I say, my gaze darting to the door again. Did someone just walk by?
“I have my meals delivered most of the time, but I’m still cooking on my days off.” The microwave dings, and I take out the beans and carry the bowl back to the bar. Theo’s eyes move to the door and back to me. “Now, how about you tell me about what has you freaked out?”
“Someone was outside staring in earlier when I first closed up,” I say and start eating, scooping some of the mashed potatoes into my mouth. They’re buttery, fluffy, and perfect. I swallow with a groan that makes Theo’s eyes darken.
“It was Pete?”
I shake my head and shrug at the same time while I take a spoon and plunge it into the beans. “I don’t know. I couldn’t see his face. I think… I mean, it could have just been someone looking to see if we were still open.”
“Lola.” He says my name softly, but in a tone that has me looking at him. He’s got a serious expression on his rugged features. “What does your gut say?”
“I think it might have been Pete,” I admit and feel a stab of panic. I scoop up the beans as a distraction and take a mouthful. The flavors explode on my tongue, sweet and delicious. “Theo, these are fantastic.”
He smiles proudly, but it’s fleeting. Carrying the broom, he walks over to the windows and looks out while I swallow another mouthful of the scrumptious beans. He glances at me. “No one’s out there now. But I’ll walk you to your car later.”
“Thanks.”
He goes back to sweeping, and I spear some of the green beans with a fork.
We don’t talk while I devour everything he brought.
When I’m almost done with the pie, Theo has not just swept the entire bar but wiped down the tables for me, too.
He walks over, dropping the rag in the sink behind the bar and coming to a stop in front of me.
I offer him a forkful of pie, and he hesitates but leans in and opens his mouth.
It’s hot as hell feeding him and watching him chew, which is ridiculous.
My panties are damp, though, so apparently I’m turned on by ridiculous.
He leans in and swipes a thumb across my bottom lip when I finish the last bite.
“Whipped cream,” he says, showing me the whiteness on his thumb that he stole from my lip. I swallow and then open my mouth and suck the cream off his thumb, my tongue swirling around his skin. He swears under his breath, then, “You make me so fucking hard.”
Who says hook-ups can’t happen more than once? Is there a rulebook somewhere? If I don’t see it in writing, why do I have to listen? Theo wraps a hand around my waist and tugs me closer. “Tell me I’m not going home tonight.”
“You’re not going home tonight,” he replies before he covers my mouth with his.