30. Bailey
Bailey
Noah hovered over me like a protective German Shepherd, only I didn’t get any face licks, and he refused to catch a Frisbee in his mouth.
It had been two weeks since my accident, and he still touched me like I was made of glass. So not only was I frustrated about not being able to get anything done at work, I was sexually frustrated, too. Let’s just say that after being with Noah, my fingers weren’t cutting it anymore.
We pecked, we cuddled our little hearts out, but damn it, a girl had needs.
I had been on strict bed rest for the past two weeks, but boredom really could kill you, and I needed company.
Dinner service had long concluded, and I snuck down to the restaurant, hoping Noah wouldn’t spot me, and ran into Grant wiping down the bar top.
He pinned me with a look. “You’re not supposed to be down here. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Guilty by association and all that.”
I rolled my eyes. “I came to steal food from the kitchen. And if you keep your voice down, Noah won’t find out.”
He held his hands up. “I’m already skating on thin ice with the dude. Being in cahoots with you is a risk I’m not willing to take.”
I nodded back toward the kitchen. “Is Matt in? Think he’d whip a quesadilla up for his favorite coworker?”
“You’ll have to fight Eli for the title,” he said. “No, actually, Clara is covering for him today.”
I furrowed my brows. “I’ve been here for two months. How have I not met Clara?”
Grant suddenly became fascinated with a spot on the bar he’d been cleaning.
“She’s our pastry and desserts chef. She almost never leaves the comfort of the kitchen and hates when I swipe cookies meant for the guests.”
“What am I missing here?” I asked.
“She also may hate…me,” he muttered.
“Oh, I love inn drama. You should’ve started with that. What’d you do, switch her sugar with salt?”
He flipped me off. “She may have accidentally overheard me critiquing her cupcakes at the last birthday party we hosted here.”
“Grant, you burn toast,” I deadpanned. “How are you critiquing cupcakes?”
“All I said was the icing was a little—”
“That the icing was grainy and overly sweet, if I remember correctly.” A woman with curly blonde hair walked out of the kitchen, her apron covered in chocolate stains. “Which is confusing because you ate three of them.”
Grant had the nerve to look defensive. “I skipped lunch that day.”
“Do I tell you how much tequila to pour? Which, by the way, your margarita is weak,” she said.
“Weak?” Grant sputtered. “It won the Bexley ‘Margarita of the Year’ three years in a row.”
“The Mexican restaurant on Main had me buzzed after two sips,” she retorted.
“You’ve been cheating on me with La Cocina?”
My head bounced back and forth between the two of them, and I felt like I was watching a highly entertaining Ping-Pong match. The woman looked oddly familiar, and I was trying to remember where I may have seen her before.
“Cheating would imply exclusivity,” she said.
“To the literal inn you work at? I thought that was a given,” he exclaimed.
She shrugged, her curls bouncing as she made her way over to me.
“I’m Clara. It’s great to meet you finally. I loved what you pulled off for the festival.”
I grinned at Grant. “I like her already.”
“I can’t fucking win,” he muttered, walking toward the back room.
“You look so familiar…” I trailed. “No chance you were at the Tavern a few weeks back, were you?”
“Getting chased around by Grant, who I already turned down a dance with four times?”
I grimaced. “At least he was enthusiastically persistent?”
“A persistent pain in my ass,” she grumbled.
“While I do love giving Grant shit, I did sneak down here with the intention of locating food. Really, any type of sustenance,” I said.
Clara nodded. “That I can do. Head back with me.”
She looked like a modern-day Marilyn Monroe: all curves and bright blonde curls. I could see why she riled Grant up. I hopped on a stool, eager to see what treat Clara would pull out.
“So, you and Noah, huh?”
I gaped, looking around. “Could you say that any louder? Does the entire staff know or something?”
She opened the fridge. “Or something.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “I thought we were being discreet.”
“It’s only because someone sent a picture of you both in the staff group chat, and then it blew up from there.”
I furrowed my brows. “I’m not in the staff group chat?”
“It’s called ‘Staff Minus Boss + Bailey.’”
I gasped. “And Eli kept this from me?”
“I threatened to take away his cookie privileges,” she said.
Fuck me. You couldn’t keep a secret from anyone around here.
Clara returned with an ice cream sundae, and I nearly drooled as she handed it to me. I shoved a bite of ice cream dripping with caramel into my mouth and mumbled, “You’re forgiven.”
I spent another thirty minutes in the kitchen chatting with Clara as I ate my ice cream. She was the same age as Noah and had gone to culinary school overseas before returning to Bexley.
“Why baking? What does it for you?” I asked.
She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. “Well, for starters, no one thought I could do it, and I love to prove a bitch wrong.”
I snorted at her answer.
“And I like to see the journey. I can somehow make a hodgepodge of ingredients and flavors into something incredible. Something that makes people stop and smile or share with a friend. Food is community, and we could all use a little more of that.”
I liked Clara. She was honest, real, and if I put her and Harper in the same room, I was sure one of them would figure out how to rule a foreign country. I hoped I got to stick around here long enough to make her a permanent friend.
I hopped off the stool, thanking Clara again for the snack and inviting her to join me for hot yoga on Sunday mornings. I stepped out of the kitchen and ran straight into a brick wall, or rather, a very solid, very warm Noah.
His hands shot out instantly, gripping my hips before I could stumble backward. His jaw flexed as he looked down at me.
“What,” he said slowly, “are you doing out of bed?”
Well, so much for stealth.
“I was hungry,” I said, attempting innocence and failing spectacularly.
His eyes dragged over me. I was in flannel shorts and an oversized T-shirt of his, and something possessive crossed his face. His grip tightened just slightly.
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I have been resting,” I whined. “For fourteen days. I’m starting to forget what gravity feels like.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. He leaned in enough that I felt the heat of him and smelled the fading scent of his cologne even after a full day of work.
“You think this is funny?” he murmured.
My pulse skipped. “A little.”
His thumb brushed subconsciously against my hip bone, and my breath hitched. I was so wired and frustrated, he could kiss my cheek, and I’d probably combust on the spot. His eyes darkened, like he was remembering what it felt like to touch me like this.
He glanced past me toward the dining room, where Grant and Clara were very obviously pretending not to eavesdrop. His hand slid from my hip to the small of my back, firm and deliberate.
“You want me to stop treating you like you’re fragile?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Better hold on then.”
Before I could argue, he bent, one arm hooking behind my knees, the other braced at my back, and lifted me clean off the floor.
I squealed. “Noah!”
He didn’t look at anyone as he carried me toward his office or acknowledge the snickers behind us. His mouth brushed my ear as he turned the handle.
“You want my attention so bad?” he murmured.
My heart nearly burst out of my chest.
“You’ve got it,” he said.
He nudged the office door shut with his foot and set me down gently. His forehead rested against mine, and his breath fanned across my lips like he was debating whether to kiss me or scold me.
“You really were that hungry?” he asked softly.
I huffed a small laugh. “For ice cream? Yes.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
“And?” he asked.
My pulse thudded.
“And for you.”