Chapter 2 #2
I push the thought aside and smile at my bouncer. “It’s cool, Davis. This is Jake Graves-Holland. We went to school together. He’s friends with my brother.”
Jake gives me a wounded look. “I’m friends with you, too, Cece.”
“Yeah, of course you are,” I say, surprised he cares. My social circle consists of Ada, my staff, my parents, and a selection of drunks, but clearly, he wants in.
Davis’s jaw tightens. “That doesn’t mean he’s not bothering you. Want him gone?”
I frown, now as baffled as Jake by this unexpected aggression.
Davis has always been a great employee, working every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday without fail, always staying until close, collecting glasses to help the bar staff.
He never complains about the wages, which are low, or the number of dickheads he has to deal with, which is high.
And he rarely gets annoyed, even when Ada calls him a fake Fed and says he was responsible for three of the bar murders and is only working here to further cover up his crimes.
… Only now he looks like he wants to punch Jake Graves-Holland in the face. And Jake has stopped looking confused and started looking offended. I don’t need this on a night when I could actually make some money.
Abandon them all, an evil part of me whispers. Drive to Pukekohe and offer Will Sharpe a bachelor bang…
“Davis,” I say loudly. “Everything’s fine.”
Jake gets to his feet. “We got a problem, mate?”
Davis doesn’t blink, despite Jake’s pro rugby frame and the fact that he’s the size of a fucking totara tree.
“No problem,” Davis says, despite clearly squaring up. They’re eye-to-eye, and I instantly fear for my bar furniture.
“Guys! Enough! Please?”
A moment passes, and they deflate.
“Sorry, Cee,” Jake says, grabbing his beer and smiling at Davis. “There’s no issue. Just catching up with an old friend.”
Davis looks to me, and my stomach swoops. God, knowing Will Sharpe is single again must be making me a mess…
“Here.” I pass Davis a fresh can of Coke Zero and hold out the margarita. “Can you please take this to Ada?”
Davis takes the glass. Our fingers touch, and I smile, hoping to convey my appreciation at him checking up on me, but his nostrils flare, and he stalks off.
“I like him,” Jake declares. “Good dude.”
Seeing as they just met and seemed to spend most of their acquaintance telepathically measuring their dicks, I shoot him my ‘what the fuck’ look and start restocking the bar sides.
“Hey, wait,” Jake says. “Did you say Ada? As in, Ada Renaldo?”
I freeze. I would never, under pain of death, reveal Ada’s location to anyone we went to school with. I glance at her booth and find Davis depositing the margarita in front of her. I quickly look away.
“Nope!” I lie, aware that if he turns his head ninety degrees, he’ll see Ada Renaldo in the flesh. “So, how’s your Nan?”
“Good. About Ada—”
Screw the bar prep; screw everything about this too-hot situation.
“I gotta take a break,” I tell him, sending a quick ‘I need fifteen minutes’ hand signal to Krissy. She gives me a thumbs up, and I whip the bar towel off my shoulder and abandon my half-cut limes. “Good to see you, Jake. I’ll catch up with you later?”
“Sure. Good to see you.” He frowns. “Think about coming to the centenary, yeah? Should be a good time.”
There are two things our high school’s centenary won’t be. One is a good time. The other is bearable sober. But it does have something going for it: Will Sharpe. Officially separated.
I sprint past the renovated bathrooms that sucked most of my nursing savings and into my office.
I’ve done what I can with the rest of Afterglow, but this room still looks the same as when my godfather, Mitch, owned it.
Ratty, burgundy carpet, yellowing walls and a scratched-up desk covered in paperwork.
The only modern concession since I tended bar here during uni—or even from my childhood—is the laptop sitting on the spreadsheets that make my chest tighten whenever I look at them.
I plop into my chair, unbutton my too-tight jeans and tap the computer to life.
I smile at the background image; Ada and I at the Viennese opera in rented ball gowns.
I visited her in Europe the summer I finished my degree.
With Ada’s connections, we scored cheap tickets to every event in town, filling our days with art museums and restaurants, and our nights with champagne and accented men.
We’d get loaded on two-Euro shots before heading back to our hostels and waking up the next morning to jump on a train and do it all again.
It was the only time I simultaneously packed glamorous cocktail dresses and a T-shirt that read ‘Virgins on Tour.’ Both were false advertising.
Vienna disappears as I open tabs for every social media account I have. It would be faster on my phone, but I want a full screen for this. I hold my breath as I type ‘Will Sharpe’ into every one of Zuckerberg’s search bars.
There.
My high school crush—fine, my ongoing crush since high school—fills the screen.
Ocean blue eyes stare out at me from his profile picture.
Will’s blond hair is darker and shorter, less surfer and more businessman.
I scroll. The photos either show him in suits at his dad’s car yard or in cut-off sleeves in front of waterfalls and mountain tops.
I could get into nature. I would definitely let Will Sharpe get into me in nature…
He’s working the ‘hot dad’ vibe that’s become more appealing to me in my thirties. He looks like he’d be down to push a pram on a Sunday morning run, or volunteer to coach a rippa rugby team.
I’ve never followed his socials even though they’re public.
There’s a crush, and then there’s creepy, and I’ve always been a big believer in out of sight, out of mind.
Which was all well and good when he was married to Jenny, because I’m firmly anti-cheating within the parameters of monogamous relationships.
Nothing I ever heard about Will suggested his marriage was open, or I would have tried to smash my way through that door like the sexual Hulk.
Reaching under my desk, I open the ancient mini fridge and pull out a pouch of cranberry juice. I suck it down, hoping to counteract the yeast infection I’m risking by running a business on the unholy stress-trinity of limited sleep, financial strain, and bowls of hot chips.
I continue scrolling and Will Benjamin-Buttons before my eyes, transforming from ‘Yes, Daddy’ to roguish boy-next-door hot as I head down the rabbit hole of his feed.
His posts confirm what I already knew: he went overseas after school, then came back to play rugby, never getting further than regional teams. He started working for his dad and eventually bought into the company.
I inhale as I realise there’s no sign of Jenny.
Either Will never posted about her—and my recollection of Queen Bee Jenny Sharpe makes that unlikely—or he’s scrubbed her from his social media.
A massively good sign. For the first time in my life, dating Will Sharpe might finally be on the table.
The idea tickles the back of my mind. The centenary is in a month.
Surely the staff would be able to run the place without me for a couple of nights?
I lean back in my desk chair, collecting a stack of papers with my elbow. Swearing, I bend to pick them up and discover a pale blue envelope. Tightness grasps my chest. The envelope’s colour and clear plastic window outs it as another letter from my landlord’s property management company.
If anxiety is my symptom, Pinnacle Property Investors is the cause. Ever since I inherited this, PPI has done nothing but make life hard for me. Endless requests for bank statements and inspection reports. Two-week delays if I want a repair for a leak in the roof or a cracked drainpipe.
I’ve got this, I chant inside my head. I’ve got this, I’ve got this, I’ve got this.
An obnoxious voice at the back of my brain laughs.
You haven’t got this. You’re terrible at this. And now you want to take a weekend off, as well?
“Shut up,” I say, my breath racing as I shove the voice back into the darkness of my subconsciousness. “Shut up. Shut up.”
A light knock on the doorframe. Davis is behind me, looking worried. “You good, boss?”
“Sure,” I squeak, sliding the offending envelope under a stack of bills.
I’ll panic about that later. In the shower, probably. Showers are great for panicking. It’s a trick I learnt in nursing—the sound muffles your moans, and people write off the red eyes and puffy cheeks because of the hot water.
Davis comes closer. “Really? Because you’re breathing all heavy. Do you want some water? Or I can—” He stops, eyes on my screen. “Never mind. I’ll just, uh, give you some privacy...”
My eyes dart to my laptop, where a full-sized picture of a shirtless Will Sharpe is currently filling the screen.
A shirtless man.
Heavy breathing.
Davis is staring at me like I’m the Bride of Chucky.
“Oh shit!” I yell, leaping up from my seat. “No! Not that!”
He backs away, horror painted on every line of his too-handsome face. “Not what?”
Jesus, he’s pretending he’s not thinking it. This could not get worse…
“Not that.” I gesture futilely to my screen as I attempt to stop panting like an anxious Saint Bernard. “I wasn’t doing that. To that. I mean. That’s… That’s not something I do. Down here. At work.”
My cheeks are on fire. The only thing worse than traumatising my cute young bouncer with a panic attack is traumatising him by having him think he stumbled in on me masturbating to a dude’s selfie during a shift.
“It’s okay.” Davis’s cheeks go ruby red. “Everyone does it.”
“I don’t!” Well, that’s a lie. “Not at work!”
“Sure.”
I cover my eyes. “I was just looking up someone from high school, I swear. The breathing was a whole other thing. A… meditation thing.”
I inwardly cross my fingers and hope Davis’s knowledge of meditation techniques is as limited as his wardrobe colour palette.