Chapter 2 – cat
CAT
“Harry’s gone? Just like that?”
“That’s what Javier said. Beau asked him to work doubles all week to cover.”
Sandy and Olivia always gossip when they roll silverware. Usually, I’d only have a passing curiosity in their chatter. But when I hear Sandy say Harry’s name, I stop up short behind them.
“Harry must’ve done something, right?” Sandy asks. “They don’t fire people without warning. Otherwise, I definitely would’ve been cut when I had to call-in for all those shifts last month.”
My stomach sinks. I have a pretty good idea who got Harry fired. Nate, and by extension, me. If these two don’t know it yet, they probably will soon. Nothing gets past sees-it-all-Sandy and always-listening-Olivia.
“Harry definitely did something.” Olivia waves a clean fork for emphasis. “The guy was a mess. I heard he was doing coke during his smoke breaks.”
“That would explain the rage. Remember when he threw a plate at Javier?”
“Yeah, well—oh! Did you need something, Cat?” Olivia turns to me with raised eyebrows.
Oops.
“Uh, I’m going on break,” I say quickly. “You guys want anything from the deli?” Technically, I’m not lying. I am going on break, but I packed my own PB&J.
“We’re good, thanks!” they chime back in unison.
I swear, Sandy and Olivia are going to morph into a single person one of these days. Just one giant, all-knowing, all-seeing gossipmonger with a wicked French twist in kitten heels that smells strongly of Eau de Chanel.
My lips press tight against a giggle at the image that creates as I rush away for break.
When I wrote “never see Harry again” in my manifestation journal, I didn’t think it’d happen this fast. I hoped he would just magically decide to quit, or get offered a job defrosting burgers for researchers in Antarctica.
But I didn’t have to wait for the universe to answer me. Prince Frowning took control instead. It had to have been him, right?
He must’ve blabbed to his billionaire friend, and poof, Harry’s history.
I should feel relieved—it’s not like Harry didn’t deserve to get fired. But guilt still forms a little hollow in the pit of my stomach. What if he was living paycheck to paycheck, like me? What if he has family members he’s responsible for? What if he can’t pay his rent and ends up on the street?
It’d be my fault—well, at least partially.
My thoughts are still swirling when I get an incoming call from Pipsqueak, aka Pippa, my best friend. The nickname’s ironic, since she’s got more than a few inches on my five foot one and a half inches. Yes, that half an inch is legit. It’s mine and I’m claiming it.
“Hey, Pips,” I say once I swallow. “What’s up?”
“There was some kind of accident and I’m stuck on the 401. I’ve been here for an hour and I’m bored. Talk to me.”
“Oh no. I hope no one was hurt.”
“No idea, kitty Cat. Let's not dwell. Tell me something good.”
I chuckle. “Like what?”
“Anything. Catch me up. You’ve been working so much, I’m starting to feel like you’re avoiding me.”
“You know I’d never,” I tease. “But you only have yourself to blame. You’re the one who told me to apply for this job.”
“Nah, we’ll blame Ryan.”
Her stepbrother is best buds with the owner, Beau Bishop, which is how Pippa knew they’d be hiring before the first job posting was ever made.
It was because of her that my resume was at the top of the list. She might’ve also forced Ryan to put in a good word for me with Beau, but yeah, we’ll blame Ryan.
A memory from the night before clicks. “Ryan! Pippa, I think I finally saw your stepbrother last night.”
“Let me guess. He tried to get in your pants?” she asks dryly.
“Ew, no,” I snicker, but then recall something else. “But actually, I’m pretty sure he was waving around a pair of lacey underwear.”
“Of course he was. The pig.” I can hear her eyeroll through the phone.
Pippa’s stepbrother, Ryan Archer, is a legendary playboy.
Seriously, I don’t think a day goes by where there’s not an article about him hooking up with some model or socialite on The Toronto Tea.
Granted, like any gossip blog, not everything you read there is true.
But when it comes to Ryan, Pippa tells me there are no lies detected.
“I hope you weren’t stuck serving Ryan yesterday,” Pippa says.
I briefly consider telling her the whole saga of the waitress, the bully, and the grump. It’d be nice to unpack everything that happened. But I also don’t want to deal with another self-appointed savior. Nate is enough, thanks.
So I give Pippa the abridged version.
“Long story, but basically I ended up in the elevator on Ryan’s poker floor.”
“Ah. So you probably met the whole Black Card Gallery, huh? All his pampered, billionaire besties.”
“No, I just saw them for a sec. The only one I actually talked to was Nate.”
Pippa laughs. “Nate? Let me guess, you talked and he answered exclusively in caveman grunts.”
“You know him then?”
“I know the whole sordid quintet. Some better than others. Nate not as well, but that’s only because the handful of times he was around visiting Ryan when we were both still living at home, he barely spoke more than two words to me.”
“Well, he talked to me. I wouldn’t say the man’s a chatterbox, but he wasn’t totally unfriendly. He even offered to walk me to my car.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“You’re missing the point.”
I’m met with complete silence.
“Hello?” I say, wondering if the call dropped.
“Oh no, I’m here, just…thinking. Let me clarify, Nate, as in Nathaniel Walsh, made friendly conversation with you and then offered to walk you out?”
Her tone reeks of disbelief.
“Yep. In that order. I think he was just trying to be nice, Pips.” I can feel the defensiveness in my voice. “Is that so shocking?”
“Nate Walsh is not nice, Cat. He makes Darth Vader look like a Care Bear. He’s as grumpy and bossy as they come. As your designated wingwoman, I consider it my duty to tell you that you absolutely shouldn’t date him.”
My mouth falls open. “Whoa. Who said anything about dating him?”
“You didn’t have to. You’re not someone who casually fishes for information about a guy unless you think he’s hot. And granted, yes—Nate Walsh is très sexy, and he’s a gazillionaire. That does not mean he’s at all dateable.”
“Fine,” I squeak out, spluttering for a response. “I might’ve noticed that from one to ten, he’s a thirteen, but I’m not exactly looking to date, Pippa. I’m way too busy.”
“Sure,” she deadpans. “Look, Nate’s not a total fuckboy like Ryan, but he still goes through women like Kleenex. He doesn’t keep them around longer than a night, and from what I hear, that’s on purpose. He doesn’t want them getting any ideas about going steady.”
My mouth drops open. That doesn’t sound like the guy I met last night, the one who thoughtfully offered to play bodyguard for me. Bossy, sure. Grumpy, definitely. But he didn’t seem like someone who was thoughtless about people’s feelings.
“Tuck that quiet disappointment away, kitty Cat. You deserve better than being the soup du jour and then discarded like yesterday’s takeout.”
“It’s fine,” I say, probably too quickly. “Moving on.”
“Unless you’re into getting railed in a luxury bed and then never talking to the guy again,” she jokes. “I mean, if you are, then by all means, live your best life.”
For the first time all day, a real smile spreads across my face. Pippa might be all fire on the outside, but inside she’s as melty as a campfire marshmallow, especially when it comes to her friends. And I’m lucky to be one of them.
“Don’t worry. I’m in no danger of falling for him,” I reassure her. “He probably won’t even talk to me next time he stops by the restaurant.”
I’m surprised to feel a pang of disappointment at the admission, because I know it’s true. Someone like me is nobody to a guy like Nate Walsh.
Pippa starts to answer, but she’s drowned out by a bunch of beeping car horns.
“Shit, sorry, traffic’s moving again,” she says.
“Good timing, my break is over in like”—I check the time—“two minutes ago, actually.”
“Call you later?”
“Later, Pips.”
The next six hours of my shift go by in a flash. The restaurant is so busy on Friday nights, I barely have time to think about anything except whether my section has their drinks refilled.
Luckily, I get a great table of older ladies out celebrating after their 35th high school reunion. They’re not only sweet and funny as hell—they also think I’m adorable, and tip me almost 30 percent, which puts me well on my way to making rent.
Even though my muscles are sore and my feet ache like they’ve been run over by a herd of buffalo, I’m feeling good. Heck, I’m actually humming as I leave the building to walk home.
I haven’t gotten more than a quarter of a block from the back parking lot when a sleek black sedan pulls up beside me. The window rolls down, revealing a man with salt and pepper hair curling under a chauffeur’s hat.
Craning my neck, I look around for the person he’s clearly looking for, but then he says…
“Excuse me, Caitlin Daniels?”
I stop. “Um, yes?”
I try on a smile, but I know it won’t erase the confusion I can feel pulling between my brows.
“How do you know my name?”
This guy doesn’t seem like a creep, but I’m almost certain I’ve never met him. Maybe I served him at the restaurant?
He puts the car in park and gets out, hustling over to the passenger door closest to me. Reflexively, I step back, putting an extra few feet of space between myself and the stranger.
“Nathaniel Walsh sent me to drive you home,” he says as he opens the door and gestures for me to get inside.
“Who?” I blurt out, needing him to repeat himself. Did he actually say Nate asked him to drive me home?
Apparently, the guy doesn’t let a woman stay around for longer than one night. So why would he even remember my name?
The driver frowns, his confusion now a match for my own. “Mr. Walsh said you knew him.”
“No, I know him,” I explain. “I just—I’m surprised, that’s all.”
And honestly, I’m not sure if I even believe this guy.
Telling a girl a billionaire wants to offer her a chauffeured drive home seems like a pretty crafty way to get said girl into your car so you can ax murder her.
“Well, Mr. Walsh expressed some concern for your safety. You shouldn’t be walking the streets so late at night, not by yourself.”
I sigh.
Apparently, Nate’s got a thing for playing white knight, so he sent one of his vassals off to see me home. Of course, a rich dude like him would think it’s impossible for a girl to walk home by herself without being in imminent danger.
But I’ve been walking home through the city at night for years. Maybe Nate thinks I’m some helpless little waif just because I’m short and avoid confrontation. I’m way tougher than I look, though. I don’t need a ride, not from a guy who barely knows me.
“That’s kind of him, but I’m good,” I tell the driver. “I like walking.”
He stares at me like he’s not sure if he heard what I said correctly.
“You’ll walk?” he repeats.
“Yes,” I say firmly.
“Miss Daniels,” he says with a polite, if a little tense smile. “People don’t refuse a man like Nathaniel Walsh.”
“Well, good thing I’m not people,” I say with a shrug. “I come with my own exception clause.”
He stares at me for a moment, blinks, and then closes the passenger door with a nod.
“Very well. Be safe, Miss Daniels.”