Chapter 7
Me: I’m not going to make it.
Twin: Oh no!
Livy: Lilah you owe me a dollar!
Me: I’ve barely started my first day and I might crazy-murder him. Professional Boss Bitch Izzy didn’t even bother showing up this morning. I was so worried about being late and pissing him off, I skipped my chai run.
Livy: Oof, fatal mistake
Me: I know. So instead of showing him what a good hire I was, I may have just stared at him and fantasized about his ass and made him so mad he left me in the lobby.
Twin: What do you mean he left you?
Me: Like, straight up walked away expecting me to follow him like a dog.
Livy: Dick!
Twin: What did you do??
Me: I followed him like a dog!
Livy: As one does.
Me: I wanted to smack him upside his stupid gorgeous head. So, as I followed him to his truck plotting his murder, I knew phase “Boss Bitch” was out and I needed to immediately move on to phase “Kill Him With Kindness”
Livy: Obviously
Twin: Why am I afraid of what that means?
Me: I’m getting my chai now. Be prepared to bail me out when you get the call.
R ich aromas inundate me as I walk to Bean & Brew to get my morning fix.
Izzy the Human doesn’t emerge until after a dirty chai. Before then, you are likely to experience Izzy the Bridge Troll, Izzy the Demon Spawn, or Izzy the Hobgoblin, depending on where I’m at in my cycle.
Coffee is repulsive on its own. But tea never gives me the kick I need. So was born the dirty chai—sumptuous chai tea with a shot of espresso. Ok, I didn’t invent it, but it was invented, and I discovered it and therefore it’s mine.
This morning went completely off the rails.
I wasn’t lying when I told Reid I learn better doing than listening.
From what I gathered, we’ll stop into as many properties as we can over the next six months and Reid will do any necessary maintenance and repairs.
I’ll try to re-imagine each space to be more marketable.
My changes will create more work for Reid…he’ll love the added burden and want to be my bestest friend forever. Kill me now.
The sooner we can nail down a schedule—or he dictates the schedule is more like it—the better. Not like I have literally anything going on in my life, but I’m a planner.
Growing up in complete chaos, being able to plan my days was what kept me sane. I fall asleep easier knowing I have a plan for the next day and wake up feeling prepared. Even if a day goes sideways, I feel like I have a semblance of control.
Masala infused life blood warms my hands as I walk up one side of Main Street and down the other, passing time while Reid works. The gentle rumble of morning traffic is the soundtrack, and the rainbow of paint colors and passers-by comprise the film.
Visceral fear freezes my system as a squad car cruises by, heart pounding out of my chest. Even after all these years, whenever I see a cop, I’m afraid it’s him .
Anxiety blurs my vision, and my body backs into something rough and hard. Before I spiral, I force myself to do my calming exercise.
Three things I can see—my feet, my to-go cup, the sidewalk. Three things I can feel—brick scraping my shoulder, heat from my chai, sun on my face. Three things I can hear—my heart pounding in my ears, my unsteady breaths, a bell chiming above a shop door.
Feeling more grounded, I roll my shoulders and shake off the lingering buzz from my episode. A tug in my chest propels my feet towards Reid—as if the cantankerous asshole will provide safety and comfort.
Reid didn’t specifically invite me into the bed and breakfast, and wasn’t in the mood to deal with me, so I decide to stay out of his way. I take up residence in the lobby and am making some notes about its current aesthetic when Reid emerges, tool bag in hand, making a beeline to the front door.
I stand just before he passes me. “Hey Reid! Are you finished?” He looks through me, my presence is out of context for him, and it takes him a moment to remember that I do in fact work with him now.
A heavy sigh escapes his stupid, luscious lips. “Yea. Need to get back on the road.” He continues to walk past me, and without permission from my brain, my arm juts out and I grab him by the bicep.
Holy fucking bicep. That Henley is doing him all the favors. He looks down at my hand, discomfort emanating from him in pulsing waves. I rip my hand back and wipe my palm on my pant leg.
“I was thinking it would be great if we could make a game plan for the season, or at least for the next couple of days? I think it’ll be more productive if we're on the same page and I’m not nipping at your heels like a stray dog.”
His eyes meet mine for just a moment and electricity zaps through me straight to my toes. He glances away quickly and readjusts his ball cap lower over his brow. My inner masochist whimpers, “No! Please electrocute me with your eyes, sir.”
His eyes narrow and the muscles in his jaw flutter as he mulls over my suggestion, not liking it, but not disagreeing either.
I take advantage of his pause of indecision and gather up my things.
Stepping in front of him to block his path, I suggest, “The Flying Pig is just down the street, do you want to go grab something to eat and make a plan for the week?”
He hesitates a moment more before he cracks his neck and moves around me to grab his coat from the rack by the front door. He somehow crams his Herculean shoulders into a worn navy-blue job coat. I fumble to put on my jean jacket to keep up with him, but the door slams shut.
He left? Seriously? That’s fucking rude.
I exit the building like a civilized human person and shoot daggers at his retreating back. I take long but not rushed strides to catch up to him. Sensing me, he barely turns his head to the side and grunts his reluctant agreement.
We walk in silence to the pub, me trailing behind him at a respectable distance—close enough that he can feel me following, but far enough that I’m hopefully not irritating him.
I swear I’m not a simp, I’m killing him with kindness. Not simping.
As we enter the pub, the clamor of conversation sinks my stomach. I immediately realize my mistake. It’s Monday, during the lunch rush, in a gossip-fueled small town.
Reid doesn’t like being around people or getting public attention. I don’t like being around people or getting public attention. And we're walking in together.
Reid motions to the hostess that we need a table for two. Her eyes widen in surprise, but she fumbles around gathering two menus and sets of silverware and leads us to a vacant booth. I swear I can hear heads turning as we pass.
Shucking off our coats and shoving them to the wall-side of the booth, we take our seats, and both push our menus away to the edge of the table.
Reid clenches his jaw in a rhythmic manner and is breathing deeply through his nose, a spot on the wall apparently fascinating him. I’m wringing my hands painfully in my lap repeating don’t look at them, just don’t look at them over and over in my head.
I’m not sure who's more uncomfortable being here. What a fun little competition I’ve found myself in. Coming here was a huge mistake. In what universe would Reid Andersen be caught dead sharing a meal with Isabelle Tate?
Even though he's become a reclusive prick, he's still one of the town's most prized possessions. They don’t want him tainted by any Tate filth.
From the corner of my eye, I spot a table of people I recognize from high school. The girls derisively examine me, whispering to each other. One of the guys makes the hand job gesture off to the side of their table.
My cheeks immediately heat and embarrassment floods down my neck. I’m furious with my body for having this reaction. I’m never going to live down the reputation that haunts me. I dart my eyes up to Reid to see if he notices the scene around us—if he does, he doesn’t let on.
LouAnn comes out of nowhere, a welcome distraction, and leans her hip against the table. She doesn’t look at either of us. She pops her gum and asks, “The usual?” We both respond with “Yep” and she walks away.
I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin from the ghostly sensation of prodding eyes and whispers. I can’t allow the silence to go on.
I take my notebook from my bag and poise my favorite pen over the page. Reid’s eyes flit to my things and roll in disgust. Ignoring him, I make myself a little spreadsheet, my fave—with columns for the properties Reid intends to hit this week, and rows to fill in tasks to be done at each.
I wait for a beat, two, three. I nudge his leg under the table with my boot and quickly yank it back to the safety of my side of the booth.
“Come on, Reid. I know you aren’t happy about this. I know you don’t like me or want to work with me. But I think it’ll be less painful if we communicate. What's on the agenda for this week?”
He sucks his teeth and leans back in the booth, resting his hands on his wide-spread legs. His shoulders are pushed back from the position—oh dear lord, those pecs. I avert my eyes immediately. I don’t need to get caught ogling his man nipples.
But I can’t avert my eyes from those fucking forearms. Just the right amount of hair, because he's a grown ass man. He must grip his legs harder because his forearms flex and his magic muscles bunch and relax in a rhythm that causes my lady bits to involuntarily clench.
Fuck, he’s been talking again. I can't keep zoning out when he talks. He already hates me enough without being an incompetent fool. I catch the end. “—I go where the work is needed.”
“I get that, but I assume you go home each evening, on the weekends, and between travel. For the holidays? You know these properties like the back of your hand. To save gas and time, I just thought we could map it out and…”
He cuts me off. “Fine.”
Fine? Rude.
I start to respond when LouAnn clanks our plates on the table and passes us our drinks. I frown at the dark soda and go to protest when LouAnn says, “It’s Reid’s usual, thought you might like it honey,” and walks away.
Steaming in a pile of glory atop Reid’s plate is a Greasy Spoon. A mirror image of the Greasy Spoon on my own plate. Identical glorious towers of tender biscuits, drowning in gravy and runny egg yolk. His brow furrows, noticing as well. Interesting.
I take a sip of the drink, and my eyes widen in delight.
“When did they start carrying Cherry Pepsi? It’s my favorite but they’d only ever had regular Pepsi!”
Reid clears his throat, picks up his fork, and says, “Grenadine.”
“What?”
“Frank adds grenadine. It’s not cherry, it’s a syrup for cocktails. Ordered it here for years.”
I take a long pull of the delicious concoction.
I'm in disbelief that this gruff cowboy and I have the exact same lunch order. I’m reading too much into this.
The Greasy Spoon is the best thing on the entire menu, it’s not a big deal.
Without another word, we tuck into our meals and wash it down with “Cherry” Pepsi until every morsel is gone.
Reid huffs a sound of disbelief, looking at my empty plate.
“What? You’ve never seen a woman eat something other than a side salad with water?”
“No, just, that was a shit load of food. Not sure where you put it all.”
I pat my belly and say, “You don’t even want to know how many tacos I can eat.”
Another huff from Reid, this one sounding more like a laugh, and a twitch to his lips makes me smile.
It appears my attraction to him is alive and well. Damnit.