4. Lemon #2
Lifting his hand, he palms my cheek, sliding his thumb beneath my chin to lift it up. “Yeah, she’s going to be at our place for dinner later, so you can figure out the details then. Okay, love you, sis. See you later. Bring dessert. She likes chocolate.”
Ending the call, he slides his cell into his pocket, then parts his lips to speak just as Louisa stomps back over to us, my cell in her hand. “All paid. Do you need help taking this out to the van?”
“We’re in my car, but yeah, that’d be great,” Atticus answers for me, dropping his hand from my face and guiding me back out to his car with his palm hovering tantalizingly close to my ass.
“What just happened?” I ask him when he climbs into the driver’s seat and hits the start button.
“What do you mean?” he questions, glancing my way as he pulls out onto the street.
“You can’t just tell my boss I quit.”
“He was an asshole, and I found you a better job.”
“But—”
“Lemon, you hate working for him,” Atticus says confidently.
“How could you possibly know that? We met an hour ago,” I gasp.
“I notice things,” he says simply, like that’s a reasonable answer.
“You know nothing about me.”
“Yet,” he corrects. “But that’s easily remedied. There are lots of things we both need to learn,” he says vaguely, but I have a feeling his statement has a deeper meaning that I don’t understand.
“How do you know where I work?” I ask him when he slows to a stop outside the resort. “I never told you.”
“The address was on the invoice at the laundry,” he says like it should be obvious.
Sliding from the car with a grace that I wish I could emulate, he opens my door and helps me climb out, his hand burning a permanent imprint on my spine when he places it in the same spot and starts to guide me up the path to the entrance of the resort.
“Who the fuck was that guy on your cell?” Wes shouts the moment I step through the door, his eyes going wide and his voice freezing mid-word when he spots Atticus behind me.
“I—” I start, but Atticus silences me with a lethal look, stepping in front of me and blocking me from Wes’s view.
“She’s going to need the cash for the groceries and any outstanding pay you owe her, plus the money for her two weeks’ notice,” Atticus says, his voice low and lethally calm.
“Police,” Wes stutters. “I’m calling the police.”
“Go right ahead,” Atticus growls, crossing his enormous tattooed arms across his chest. “I’ll wait.”
When I try to step out from behind Atticus, he gently pushes me back, squeezing my hip in warning.
“She’s going to need a reference too. A glowing one,” Atticus says, his voice gruff and decisive.
Wes makes a noise that’s somewhere between fear and annoyance, but he doesn’t bother to speak again, and we fall into silence apart from the sound of paper being shuffled.
Turning to look at me, Atticus’s eyes soften as his lips curve into a smile.
“Do you have anything that you need to take away with you?”
I nod.
“Okay, go grab it while he’s finishing up,” he tells me.
Unsure, I glance at Wes, but Atticus steps between us again. “Go get your stuff.”
Tiptoeing around the desk, I head for the small cabinet against the wall and pull out the handful of things I brought with me when I started this job. I have a cardigan for when it gets cold and a small pink plush stuffy that one of my old customers at the coffee shop gave me on my last day.
“Don’t forget your cake,” Atticus reminds me.
A snort of slightly hysterical laughter bursts from my lips as I rush into the small staff room and open the refrigerator only to find my cake box gone. Spinning around, I scan the tiny kitchen, then spot the crumpled cake box sitting in the trash.
Suddenly outraged and angry, I storm back to the front desk and yell, “You ate my cake?” at Wes.
Instead of responding, Wes’s frantic eyes dart from me to Atticus. Without saying a word, he reaches into his pocket, unfurls a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and places it on top of the pile of bills that’s already sitting on the desk.
I have no idea why my eaten cake is the thing that finally sends me over the edge, but hot tears burn at the backs of my eyes, dripping down my cheeks as I glance around the reception area sadly, knowing that it’s unlikely I’ll ever come here again.
“Don’t cry,” Atticus snarls.
Quickly wiping my cheeks, I suck in a breath, attempting to stem the flow of tears that are still falling from my eyes.
I’m not sure if it’s my show of emotion or Atticus’s visible anger, but Wes suddenly starts writing quickly, signing his name with a flourish before he slides the reference, check, and cash across the counter toward us.
“Your shit is in my trunk. Come and get it. Don’t look at her or speak to her,” Atticus growls, taking the things from the desk and turning me toward the exit.
His hand on my hip tightens as he ushers me to his car, opening the door, and physically lifting me into the seat before he closes the door behind me.
A moment later, a cowed-looking Wes creeps toward the car and rushes to unload the bundles of clean laundry while Atticus watches him, his eyes narrowed into angry slits.
Not bothering to wait for Wes to carry the laundry away, Atticus closes his trunk, turns his back on Wes, and climbs into the driver’s seat beside me.
“Wait, the steak,” I blurt, glancing at the groceries on the back seat.
“Fuck him. We’re keeping it,” Atticus says, pulling away from the curb without glancing back toward Wes.
No matter how much I blink, the tears that started at the resort keep slipping from my eyes, making Atticus get more and more tense in the seat beside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice thick.
“What the fuck for?”
“I know you don’t like crying.”
“I don’t have a problem with people crying. What’s pissing me off is that you’re upset over that fucking asshole,” he growls.
“I loved that job,” I gasp.
“You loved running unreasonable errands for someone who treated you badly?” he rasps.
“No. I’m the resort receptionist. I’m supposed to greet guests, handle check-in, and arrange classes, treatments, and special requests. I love talking to the guests and being a part of celebrating their birthdays and anniversaries.”
“But that’s not the job that you were doing,” Atticus reminds me.
“I know,” I admit, fresh tears falling from my eyes.
“He was taking advantage of you,” Atticus says, his voice dropping to a soft rasp.
“I know,” I agree, wiping more tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand.
“Working for Tori will be better. Plus you’ll have a chance to eat all the cake.”
“I can’t believe he ate my cake,” I moan, fresh tears spilling quickly from my eyes.
“What cake was it?” Atticus growls.
“I can’t remember what it was called, but it looked like chocolate heaven, and I was going to have it for my lunch.”
“Cake for lunch isn’t a real meal.”
I part my lips to tell him that cake is so a meal, but his expression stops me. Lifting one hand from the steering wheel, he taps at the screen in the dash, and a moment later the sound of ringing bursts from the speakers.
A female voice answers. “Big bro.”
“What cake did Lemon buy this morning?”
“Err…” She pauses, then says, “I think she had a croquant.”
“Does that look like chocolate heaven?” he asks.
Tori giggles. “Yeah, I guess it does.”
“Do you have any left?”
“Let me check,” she says. “Yeah, there’s one. I didn’t expect them to sell so well.”
“Put it in a box. I’m coming to pick it up,” Atticus says gruffly.
“Okay. Any particular reason?” Tori asks, sounding amused.
“Lemon’s asshole ex-boss ate the one she bought herself this morning.”
“That fucker. I’ll box it up now. See you in a minute.”
“You didn’t need to do that,” I whisper after he ends the call.
“You were looking forward to it,” he says simply, turning and parking outside the patisserie. “Do you want to come and talk to my sister now, or shall I get your cake, and you can chat about the job over dinner?”
Glancing at myself in the rearview mirror, I gasp at my puffy eyes and tear-streaked face. “I look awful.”
“You’re fucking beautiful. But that’s okay. You can talk to her later. Wait here. I’ll get your cake,” he says, slipping out of the car and into the store, returning a moment later with a small cake box in his hand.
“Thank you,” I whisper when he hands the cake to me.
Exhaling softly, he wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumb. “You’re welcome.”
My gaze falls to the box resting in my lap, and I have to fight the urge to cry again.
When was the last time anyone did something this thoughtful for me?
Honestly, I don’t remember. For months I’ve spent my days running around after Wes and my nights avoiding Avery.
Even though I’ve been living in Rockhead Point for nearly two years, I don’t really have any friends here, and I don’t remember the last time I did anything other than work and hide in my bedroom.
What has my life become? When I lived in Bozeman, I had friends…didn’t I? My regular customers were friends. Mrs. Tillman used to bake banana bread and bring it in for me. Eric, the biggest Dungeons and Dragons geek I’ve ever met, used to ask me at least once a week to join his D&D club.
I practically watched Alyssa’s baby grow up, and I even got invited to Harold and Kumar’s wedding. I had a life there, but I guess it kind of revolved around my job, and when the shop shut, all of those connections to the people I saw every day faded away too.
The more I think about it, the more pathetic I feel.
I haven’t really made any effort to get to know people here.
When Avery and I first moved in together, I guess I thought she and I would become besties, but instead, she became the roommate from hell.
Until now I hadn’t realized how much I’d allowed my deteriorating relationship with her to affect the rest of my life.