Chapter 22 #2
But I won’t say it unless I’m sure I feel it. And I don’t think I can let myself feel it without knowing for sure that she’s going to stay with me.
She sang about me making her feel brave, but I might still be a coward when it comes to this.
“Is that the song you were writing the other day on my porch?” I ask.
“No, this is a new one. It’s not finished either.”
These lyrics were so raw and vulnerable. If she’s willing to let me hear this one while she wasn’t ready for me to hear the other, I can’t imagine what vulnerabilities she might have revealed in that one.
“I’m glad I got to hear it,” I tell her, my finger tracing a circle around her knee.
“Though I hope you know I don’t expect you to share any of your music with me if you’re not comfortable doing it.
I’m not an artist, but I understand how personal that can be.
And I’m just grateful for anything you’re willing to trust me with. ”
She kisses me this time, a soft caress of her lips against mine. Then she says, “I trust you with everything. Sometimes I might need more time to make sure I get my words right, that’s all.”
I know she’s talking about the words in her songs. But it feels like there’s so many other words dancing in the small space between us. Like we’re both reaching, trying to find the magic combination of them that will unlock the full potential of what we could be for each other.
And as much as I want to sit here with her and keep searching for them, I need to get back to work.
So I give her one more kiss before I leave, making her promise to show up for dinner.
I love her dedication and passion for her music, but I don’t like when she forgets to eat.
Sure, it only happened that one time that I know of, but I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again.
The first dinner order comes through mere minutes after I step back into the kitchen. From there, they continue trickling in for about an hour. Then the rush really gets going, and I don’t have time to think about Riley for a while, because all my focus is on cooking and plating up meals.
When one of the servers lets me know that someone in the dining room is asking for me, though, I hurriedly wipe my hands on a towel, tell Sam to take over for a minute, and leave the kitchen.
There’s a little spring in my step that should embarrass me.
But at this point, I think I’m past being embarrassed over how Riley makes me feel.
I scan the dining room for long red hair and bright blue eyes that make my heart flutter but, I spot someone else instead. The spring in my step gives a painful creak inside my mind as I freeze, my feet refusing to move forward.
What the hell is she doing here?
For the first time since I left Chicago, Christy is only eight feet away from me, sitting at a table by herself.
Her blonde hair is cut even shorter than I remember, in a bob that makes the angles of her face look harsher.
But the business-casual clothing style she favored is the same.
She’s wearing a mauve, high-necked, sleeveless top, with gray slacks and pointed black heels.
She looks so out of place here that, for a second, I try to convince myself this is actually some bizarre nightmare.
And then she calls out my name, lifting a hand in a gesture that feels less like a wave and more like a regal summons.
My instinct is to spin around and bolt right back to the kitchen. But I’m an adult, and I need to find out why she’s here. So I force my feet to move forward until I’m standing in front of her table.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I say, vocalizing the first thought I had upon seeing her without rephrasing it in a more publicly appropriate way. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a few heads at the next table turn toward me. I grimace and mutter an apology.
“Would you like to sit?” Christy asks, gesturing to the chair opposite her.
“I’m working.”
“Yes, I see that,” she says. She sweeps her gaze across the room, then pulls a face. “You’re working here.”
There’s absolutely nothing wrong with working at the inn—despite how ridiculous both the owner and this town are—but I don’t feel the need to justify my career choice to her.
So, through clenched teeth, I repeat, “What are you doing here?” I manage to leave out the expletive this time, at least.
“I came to find you, obviously. I want to talk.”
I can’t do this right here. I have no clue what she could possibly want to talk to me about, and I don’t really care. I have nothing left to say to her. But if I was going to talk to her, it absolutely can’t be here. It can’t be now, when my heart is still racing from the shock of seeing her.
I can’t believe she had the audacity to show up here.
No, scratch that.
Yes, I can.
Since she had the audacity to cheat on me with half a city, I suppose there isn’t much I’d put past her.
She’s peering up at me expectantly, like she can’t fathom any reason in the world why I wouldn’t want to talk. It’s infuriating, and I need to get out of here before I do something that would get me fired.
When she gestures again at the empty chair, I blurt out, “I can’t, I’m busy.” And then I turn and bolt back to the safety of the kitchen before she can argue.
I wordlessly nudge Sam out of the way at the stove, ignoring his confused look as I get back to work. I try my best to stay focused, but my mind is spinning. And I’m obviously irritable, because I have to apologize more than once to the staff when I snap at them for no reason.
Seeing Christy shook me up enough that I forget about making Riley promise to have dinner.
And when a server tells me she’s in the dining room, I panic.
I can’t go back out there. I always want to see Riley, but now I can’t, because the last woman on Earth I ever wanted to see again is probably still at a table waiting for me.
Fucking Christy.
Leave it to her to wait until I’m happy, then come here and try to fuck up my life a second time.
Maybe if I stay hiding in here long enough, she’ll get bored and leave. It’s doubtful, but I can at least hope.
I ask the server to apologize to Riley, and to let her know I’m busy and won’t be able to see her until after the kitchen closes.
And I hate that. I want to send her a text so she knows what’s really going on.
But I don’t know what I should say. It’s probably better if I wait to explain it in person.
“Shit!” I yell, jerking my hand away from the hot stovetop. I burned myself like a freaking amateur because I wasn’t paying enough attention to what I was doing.
I shake out my finger and order myself to get a grip. This is fine. Christy can’t make me talk to her if I don’t want to. And I sure as hell don’t want to.
She can wait out there all damn night, for all I care.
Whatever.
I’m not going to let her get to me.
I’m fucking not.