10. Genevieve
Genevieve
Carrie smelled like a daiquiri. The combination of her coconut shampoo and strawberry bodywash reminded me of my favorite cocktail. And her lips were now my favorite thing to taste.
I wasn’t sure what happened. One minute I was walking down the hallway, then I caught a glimpse of her wrapped in that tiny little towel and for the first time in my entire life I’d acted purely on instinct.
And my instincts had urged me to press myself against Carrie and kiss the stuffing out of her.
It was a mistake. I knew that logically.
For one thing, we were practically strangers.
I’d stowed away in her catering van and invited myself into her home.
My parents had investigators looking for me and I had no clue what to do about their little engagement stunt.
My sister had seemed as surprised as I was by whatever was going on with them.
The situation was complicated. Besides that, Carrie was older than me, grumpier, a perfectly normal American while my life involved being in the spotlight every time I returned to my home country.
Even with the relative anonymity I enjoyed here in the States, I still was always on guard, always worried about a photographer recognizing me or some random fortune seeker trying to scam me.
Carrie wouldn’t scam me, I knew that. She seemed completely uninterested in my money or the fact that I was royalty. In fact, if I had to bet, I’d say those things were marks against me with her, not something in my favor.
After I finished in the bathroom I tossed and turned in my borrowed bed for way longer than I would have liked, my mind racing with everything that had happened since Friday. How could things change so much in three short days? It was crazy.
I knew I couldn’t hide out here forever.
I had a job, and while I’d emailed my boss asking for an emergency leave, I had responsibilities.
I couldn’t leave my employer in the lurch for too long.
And I couldn’t impose on Carrie’s hospitality forever either, as much as I’d like to just move into this cute little bungalow and stay forever.
This house had so much more warmth than the gray and white condo I lived in. I’d always liked it but now that I’d lived somewhere that was an actual home I could feel the difference.
it wasn’t just the house that called to me.
It was the occupant. As impossible as it sounded, I’d fallen in love with Carrie.
I’d known it the instant our eyes met when I was hiding out in her van.
Felt it in the strange ease I felt spending time with her.
I could deny it as much as I wanted, argue that it was too soon, too impossible, too ill-advised, but my heart wanted what it wanted.
If I hadn’t known before, I would have known when we kissed.
I’d never had a kiss that was so perfect, so right. It had felt like coming home.
God, I was acting like a smitten schoolgirl. I didn’t even know if Carrie liked me. Although when she’d boosted me up against that wall and kissed me with a fervor that matched my own, it seemed like she had.
Monday morning started just like the day before.
I woke up before Carrie, put on a pot of coffee, and got to work making breakfast. As I examined the contents of her refrigerator, I realized the need to go grocery shopping was getting urgent.
I used up the last of the eggs, the last of the butter, and the meager amount of bacon that was left.
I supplemented it with frozen sausage I found in the freezer, but even that wasn’t enough to make as much food as I was planning to make.
Carrie stumbled out looking deliciously rumpled, her hair askew and her eyes bleary.
“Coffee,” she grumbled. For some reason I found her grumpiness adorable.
“Already made,” I assured her.
I was halfway through my first cup already and based on how tired she looked, Carrie had slept as well as I had. And by ‘well’ I meant terribly.
She sat at the table, holding her cup between her hands and staring down at the liquid caffeine like it held the secrets of the universe. I’d already figured out that Carrie took a while to wake up in the morning, but she seemed more out of sorts than she was yesterday. Was it the kiss?
“Here’s your breakfast,” I said softly, setting the plates on the table.
“Thanks.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes before I spoke up.
“I want to apologize,” I said.
Carrie’s head shot up. “For what?”
“For stowing away in your van. For inviting myself to stay at your house. For kissing you.”
She gave me a glare that made my core tingle. “Don’t you dare apologize for that. You might have started it, but I’m the one who took it to the next level.”
“So we were both in the wrong then?” I asked.
She shrugged, one corner of her mouth kicking up. “Or we were both in the right. It was a good kiss.”
“It was,” I said. “The best I ever had.”
She studied me like she was looking for subterfuge, and finding none, gave me another one of those small smiles.
“But given the circumstances, we should avoid doing it again.”
The words hit like a knife even though I knew she was right.
“Yeah,” I said sadly.
“I really want to know what you do with these eggs,” Carrie said after a few minutes of silence.
“Maybe I’ll tell you someday,” I teased.
“What else do you cook?” she asked.
I met her eyes. “This is pretty much it. I keep my meals very simple. In the morning, I usually have some combination of yogurt, granola, fruit, or toast. Lunchtime I get something from the café in the building where I work. Then I heat up whichever prepared meal sounds good for dinner.”
She shook her head. “That sounds dull as fuck.”
“It is,” I laughed. “I really should take a cooking class or something.”
We both startled as Carrie’s phone buzzed with a text. She read the message with a frown, then tapped out a response before setting it back down with a deep sigh.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“We’re catering an office party tonight and my partner isn’t feeling well. We had two of the wait staff call out sick, so it looks like some virus is going around the team. I wasn’t supposed to work tonight, but I’ll need to go in and help.”
“I’ll come too.”
“For what?” she asked.
“I can help with serving. You said you’re down two people. It’s the least I can do.”
“Have you ever waited tables or served food at an event before?”
“No, but I’m a fast learner.”
Carrie laughed. “Spoken like someone with no experience. Besides, aren’t you afraid someone will recognize you?”
“It’s unlikely. No one pays attention to the serving staff, and if I’m dressed like everyone else, I’ll blend in.”
“True. But it’s hard work, Genny.”
“I don’t mind hard work.”
“Okay,” she said skeptically. “If you want to try to help, we could definitely use an extra pair of hands.”
“I won’t let you down, I promise.”
Eight hours later I was hoping I could fulfill that promise.
Carrie dug up a catering uniform my size from a stash she kept at her house.
The black pants were a smidge too long, but Carrie rolled them in and secured the fabric to itself with duct tape.
It turned out better than I would have thought.
Once I put the pants on, I couldn’t tell that the hems were taped.
The white shirt fit perfectly, although I didn’t have the right bra for it, so I borrowed a camisole from Lizzie’s dresser to wear beneath it.
Then I separated my blonde hair into pigtails, one on each side of my face, securing them with rubber bands.
I outlined my eyes with dark waterproof eyeliner and added a few layers of mascara, making my eyes look huge.
It was enough to make me look like just another server instead of a pampered princess.
Carrie came out of her bedroom wearing the same outfit as me, her eyes taking in my pigtails and makeup, but all she said was, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah.”
The rest of the team had delivered the food to the office where the party was, so we just needed to help with serving and clean-up. As we drove to the event, Carrie reviewed the protocols.
“We’re only serving finger foods tonight which is infinitely easier than a full dinner,” she explained.
“You’ll just grab whatever tray is waiting for you on the counter.
We rotate the types of food, so people get a nice variety.
Make sure you know what everything is before you take it out because people will ask. ”
“Okay.”
“They’ll also want to know about allergens, like if the hors d’oeuvres have gluten or peanuts or whatever. If you don’t know, don’t guess, come back and ask us.”
“Got it.”
“Be sure to offer napkins, and when your tray is empty, do a walk around the room to pick up discarded plates and napkins. But don’t pick up any napkins with your bare hands, use another napkin.”
“Why?” I asked curiously.
“You don’t want to touch someone’s snot if they used it as a Kleenex, or their saliva if they spit it out.”
“Oh gosh, I never even thought about that,” I said. “That’s super gross.”
“Hazard of the business.”
She pulled into an alley behind the building, parking next to a dumpster.
“Are you ready to work?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said, giving her a snappy salute.
She rolled her eyes. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Nonsense. I’m going to kick ass.”