Chapter 4
FOUR | TARYN
I’ve been zoned out for the past fifteen minutes, my focus not straying from a limp piece of lettuce. Grabbing my fork next to my plate, I flick my wrist, pushing it around.
Well, it wasn’t limp when I ate my house salad, so the fact that it’s floppy is proof of how long I’ve been sitting motionless at this table inside Crocks. Maybe I have some superpower I’m unaware of, and it wilted under the heat of my hellfire stare.
That interview was…unbelievable.
It was one of those moments that felt like a complete and utter blur because my mind was blindsided by how bizarre and nonsensical it was. My mentality still doesn’t know how to process it.
After whipping out of the parking lot, I headed home to let Rossco out. I watched him chew on a stick for a while in the yard and rip it into unbelievably tiny shreds as I attempted to gather my wits so I could make a logical decision about what to do next.
Eventually, my stomach growled with hunger, so I left Rossco in the backyard and changed out of my interview attire. I slipped on a pair of jean shorts, a fitted white tank, and a hunter-green flannel while I worked up the courage to jump in the truck and make the ten-minute drive to Crocks.
My stomach required food, but I also had the motive to plead for a job.
Luckily, the piece-of-shit house I’m living in has extremely low rent.
Like, way below the average for even a town this quaint.
Which was why it was so easy to rent it blindly.
Even now, with my financial status—thanks to my saving money abilities—I could go a few months without a job if needed.
But I’d rather not be bored out of my mind.
I worked at a diner in high school, so maybe I’ll be able to secure a job here with no issues. Unless they need someone to flip pizza dough, which is completely out of the question due to my severely uncoordinated nature.
I lift my head and peer at the dark wood bar with rows of liquor bottles behind it. The bartender wears the same gray Crocks logo T-shirt that the delivery guy had on the first night I got into town.
I wonder where he is. Just a glimpse of his panty-dropping smile would lighten my foul mood.
The scent of baked crust and fried food wafts through the air, mixing with the aroma of hops from the bar.
Vintage-style pendant lights hang over some of the tables and the whole length of the dark-finished wood bar in the back.
The soft glow from the sconces on the wall creates a relaxing atmosphere.
One of the back walls is almost entirely made of windows, giving customers a view of the bay where Cedar Creek flows into the Columbia.
The setting sun casts orange trickles of glittery light across the water as night draws closer.
I shift in my seat at a table for two next to some windows that look out into the row of parking spots along the street.
Only a few people and families are scattered about the place beside me.
So, when a middle-aged man with a dark, graying beard pushes through the double doors to the kitchen, I decide to shoot my shot.
His walk and strong presence give him a manager-type aura.
Here goes nothing.
Slinging the strap of my crossbody bag over my shoulder, I push my chair under the table before making my way to the bar. The bar is nearly empty, but one elderly man with a beer in front of him sits a few seats down from where I’m standing.
The man behind the counter grabs a cup from the dish rack and a towel from the bar and dries it off.
I clear my throat. “Excuse me,” I interrupt, my voice emerging hoarser than I intend it to.
He turns toward me and smiles. His dimples show despite his facial hair. “What can I get for you?”
I swallow and lick my chapped lips, trying to wet my sandpaper tongue. “A job if you have one.”
The man chuckles, his eyes roaming over my appearance. “Sorry, darling. We aren’t hiring at the moment.”
My heart drops. Shit.
“Oh—are you sure?” I ask as if making him contemplate his response will change his answer. “I could buss tables, wash dishes…” I point to the glass in his hands as he works around the rim, polishing it with the towel.
“I’m sorry. I can’t afford to bring someone else on right now.”
“You’re the owner?”
A corner of his mouth tilts. “Sure am. Have been for the last ten years. And I take it you’re not from around here?” He furrows his brow.
My shoulders slump, and I sigh. “How does everyone know that?”
“Well, it’s not often that we have young people asking about jobs.
And if they do, it’s kids who have lived here for a while—they’re familiar to everyone.
You, on the other hand,” he dissects me under his gaze, “have a presence and pretty face that would be hard to miss if you did live in this town.”
My eyes widen, and I smack my palms on the countertop as if I can transfer my excitement into the wood and not appear as desperate. “What about a delivery driver? Do you need one of those?”
He glides a hand over his beard. “I mean, it’s a good idea, but I’m not sure we get enough calls to consider hiring a delivery driver.”
“Oka—”
Wait, what?
A few seconds pass between us before he looks at me strangely. “Are you all right?”
My nails dig into the wood surface of the bar while my face continues to harden in bewilderment. “What do you mean, ‘consider hiring a delivery driver’? You have one.”
Creases form on his forehead. “No, I don’t. I’d know if I had a delivery driver.”
“Maybe it was another pizza place, then?” I think out loud to myself, though I’m positive I called Crocks.
He places the glass on the counter, the clank against the wood causing me to jump out of my skin. “We are the only one in town.”
I know what I saw.
“I placed an order on the phone with you two nights ago. A delivery guy showed up at my door with my pizza in the same exact shirt you’re wearing,” I exclaim, gesturing to his shirt. “I’m not crazy.”
He watches me apprehensively, probably making his own assumptions about my unhinged state.
Maybe I am going insane. Seeing things.
“Sorry, I don’t know what to tell you. We’ve never had a delivery driver.” I close my eyes, releasing a frustrated breath. “But if you are looking for a job, you can try The Honey Hut, it’s a bakery and coffee bar down the road. She might be hiring and need the help.”
Nodding, I soften my tone and drench it with sweetness. I feel bad for possibly putting a damper on this guy’s night. “Thank you. I’ll reach out to her.” I hold out my hand. “Thank you, Mr.…”
He places his burly hand in mine, the size consuming mine. “Harrison Crock.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Crock. I’ll be back.”
He smirks.
I start to ramble. “I won’t be back to bother you about a job—unless you change your mind—but I’ll return to eat your pizza. And your salads, because those are really good too.” I chuckle.
“Sounds good. I’ll see you again…”
“Taryn,” I smile, and he drops my hand.
On to plan C.
Sauntering out the front door of Crocks, I’m hit with a wave of fresh air. The floral smell from the barrels decorating the sidewalk and the woodsy scent from the trees make me stop in my tracks. It’s calming. Soothing.
I walk between two parked cars and glance both ways before crossing to my truck across the street. I peer up from the pavement, my eyes locking on something sitting on my hood. Something that sure as hell shouldn’t be there.
Gaping at the apple, goosebumps spread over my body.
Someone is watching me. It’s the only reasonable explanation.
I study my surroundings. Buildings and businesses line this side of the street, but I don’t spot anyone or anything that stands out besides this damn apple.
Plus, all the establishments besides Crocks appear closed since it’s eight o’clock at night.
It’s only day three of living in this stupid town, and I have no idea who is messing with me and why. Maybe because I’m the new girl, and according to Harrison, new people don’t move here often.
I’m an easy target.
I’m glad I can entertain their boredom.
Balling my hands into fists at my sides, I dig my fingernails into my palms. Spinning back around, my feet move, marching straight back into Crocks. I am not touching that apple.
If I’m going insane, drinking won’t hurt.
Harrison lounges on the other side of the bar, and when he spots me, I flatten my lips in a line and exhale a breath he can hear. “I’m going to need a drink.”
He grins. “I thought you might need one. First one’s on the house.”