Sideways Page 5

  “Of course not. But there’s a first time for everything.” She smiled sunnily, her optimism blinding.

  He glanced at the ballet flats on her feet. “You need shoes.”

  But his traitorous brain went to other more personal things. If she wore heels, she’d be just the right size to kiss. They would fit together like chateaubriand in a puff pastry, a classic French combination.

  “These shoes are amazingly comfortable.” She defended her footwear choice hotly. “They are butter-soft Italian leather. I got them in Venice last year.”

  “They have thin soles and no support. Your feet will be killing you in a few hours.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He remembered his first time working in a restaurant. Even at fifteen—yeah, he’d been the same age as the debutante when he started working—after a ten-hour day bussing tables, his feet had been killing him.

  “Experience.” One that he had no desire to relive.

  He remembered the excitement of his first day. He’d decided on his career choice at a young age. That visceral memory of helping his dad season a piece of meat and the sizzle when it hit the grill, and the sense of accomplishment and pride that he’d felt when his family was fed. Somewhere along the way he’d lost that simple pleasure and inspiration, caught up in awards and perfection and chasing the next accolade. Instead of celebrating simple pleasures, he’d become mired in the race, self-medicating with cigarettes and scotch in a never-ending chain of stimulants and depressants.

  “Hey, are you okay?” She placed her fingers on his forearm.

  The touch zapped him back to reality. And the memory of those hot, sweaty dreams returned with a vengeance.

  She realized she was touching him at the same time he did and snatched her hand away.

  “Never better,” he lied.

  She studied him like a department of health inspector searching for evidence of rodents.

  “I’m sure these—” she twisted her foot to look at the completely inadequate shoes “—will be fine.”

  Her ankle was delicate, her feet tiny, everything about her screamed feminine and…sugar sweet.

  “They’re your aching feet.” He shrugged. “Your choice, Deb.”

  She jolted. “My name isn’t Deb. It’s T…Cee-Cee.”

  That weird hitch in her voice made him pause. Then he realized whatever her issues were, they were none of his business. He didn’t want them to be his business.

  “Whelp, Cee-Cee, good luck.” He forced himself to turn away and head for the gardening supply section. He muttered as he walked away, “You’re going to need it.”

  “Before you go…” She stopped him.

  “What now?”

  “Since you’re here, can you tell me where I could find a dry cleaner?”

  He laughed again.

  “Launderette?”

  “The kind where you drop off your clothes and they wash them for you?”

  “Exactly,” she said in triumph.

  “Boston.”

  Her face fell.

  “There’s a laundromat on the corner of Elm and Second. Although I’m pretty sure the motor lodge has coin-operated machines in the main building.”

  Her blue eyes widened in shock.

  “Yes. You’re going to have to do your own.”

  He was still laughing about the look on her face hours later.

  5

  Colt

  Colt couldn’t get the wealthy girl out of his mind.

  He wondered how she was faring. The memory of her face when he’d told her she’d have to do her own laundry brought a chuckle. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed that hard. Before he knew it, he was in his old truck—he’d sold the fancy Mercedes he’d bought as a symbol of success—and on his way to the Speakeasy.

  He’d been gardening and come up with an idea for a vegetarian main course. Maybe he’d run it by Phoebe, see if she was interested in his thoughts, and then head home.

  He parked near the employee entrance. That was not an admission that he was going to become an employee and cater events at the Speakeasy. He went through the customer entrance. They’d done a nice job with the décor. He knew from developing his own restaurants that every small detail contributed to the ambiance of a venue.

  However after the incident, he’d become persona non grata in the restauranteur world. He’d sold his restaurants, and the new owner had promptly changed the name. Which was smart.

  Hard to have a high-end exclusive business and appeal to the right clientele when your head chef was labeled a lunatic and unstable. Even successful restaurants operated on thin margins. One bad month could torpedo a booming business. Even if he’d wanted to keep cooking and maintain his restaurants, he would have likely had to close in a few months.

  So he’d sold the restaurants and equipment and left that world behind.

  Colt sauntered into the Speakeasy’s open seating area and took in the chaos.

  Phoebe paused, carrying a plate of sliders. They must be really busy if she was also serving customers. “Did you change your mind?” The hope in her voice was hard to take.

  “Just came in for a quick bite.”

  “Got to see you twice in one week.” Phoebe waved toward the bar seating. “Have a seat at the bar.”

  The unusual-shaped, almost oval bar dominated the main dining room space, sitting in the center like the main course platter at a Sunday buffet.

  He wanted to object. Sitting that close to temptation was not what he’d anticipated but as he glanced around the packed restaurant, he knew he couldn’t in good conscience take up even a two-top. They were too busy. “Good crowd.”

  Colt slid onto a seat at the bar. Nodded to the empty stool next to him. “Hey, Hamish.” The idea of a ghost tickled his sense of humor, but the rush of cool air was a bit of a surprise.

  Ty, the bar manager, gave him a chin lift. “What can I get you?”

  Colt stared at the bottles displayed on the glass shelving, highlighted by the antique lamps hanging from the ceiling, his gaze automatically zooming in on his choice of poison, the bottle of Lagavulin. His mouth watered at the anticipation of feeding the beast inside him.

  He could almost feel the burn from the 80 proof alcohol content and the heat as the elixir slid down his throat. Instead, he burned with shame. “Club soda with a lemon.”

  Ty quickly filled his order and slid the drink in front of him. “Lemme know if you need anything else.”

  The television was on mute while the Red Sox destroyed the Yankees. A couple of other single guys hunched over plates of fries and drank beer with their gazes glued to the game. Personally, Colt preferred hockey but the Bruins preseason hadn’t started yet.

  Phoebe dropped off the sliders giving an intimate smile to Sam Tremblay, a local guy who’d been gone for awhile but had returned home to help out his grandmother and aunt with Crystal Persuasion, their new age-y shop with metaphysical stuff like energy healing and tarot card readings. Even Colt could tell the two had something going on. Good for her.

  Colt quickly rattled off an order for Breakfast for Dinner—a sweet potato hash and poached eggs with a maple siracha drizzle that reminded him of a hash he used to make, although the siracha drizzle was a nice touch—and then swiveled around to watch the controlled chaos on the restaurant floor rather than stare at the tower of booze.

  His gaze found her immediately. Her normally perfectly styled hair hung in limp wisps against her cheeks. She held her paper and pencil at the ready but her white-knuckled grip on the pencil belied her smile. Tension tightened the corners of her glass-blue eyes and her mouth was seconds from tipping down.

  She was waiting on the table behind him.

  “What can I get you?” The deb was back. She was trying to pull up her sunny persona but all that forced good cheer was starting to crack around the edges. Yet somehow she managed to make the jeans and T-shirt look feminine and high-class.

  The family of four s
tarted ordering. Every single dish had some modification, and he wondered how she felt about changes to the menu now. The stray thought amused him.

  She repeated their order back to them, getting about half the modifications incorrect. But she managed to charm them out of annoyance and before she left they were actually giving her tips on how to remember their order. Instead of being aggravated, they were all smiles.

  He listened absently as he studied the rest of the room. He missed the frenetic camaraderie of restaurant life. Of course at the end he’d been a tyrant rather than one of the group. Even he couldn’t stand his own company.

  “Yo, Cee-Cee,” Ty called to her as she was about to walk away. “One order of Breakfast for Dinner.”

  She grabbed the ticket from the bartender and turned to go back to the kitchen, jolting to a halt at the sight of Colt.

  “Come to gloat?” Her normally peppy voice had an exhausted lilt to it.

  He had been thinking along those lines, but he was disoriented by how much he hated seeing her defeated. The angry asshole in him wanted to rub it in, deliver a heartfelt I told you so, but he restrained the impulse.

  “How are the feet?” He wasn’t sure but he thought he’d detected a slight limp.

  “Absolutely fabulous.” She was lying through her orthodontia-ed white teeth.

  “Soak them in Epsom salts tonight after you get off.”

  Except the motor lodge didn’t have a bathtub, just a small shower.

  “Miss.” An older woman raised her hand. “I asked for more water ten minutes ago.”

  “Oh good golly. I’m so sorry,” she called out. Her smile slipped. “Got to run.”

  Colt watched as she scurried away.

  Tracy

  Oh my God. Her feet were killing her.

  Tracy wanted to collapse into a puddle of agony. She hadn’t been on her feet this much since she’d done the Jimmy Fund Walk to raise money for cancer research in high school. She preferred her exercise in the water or on the tennis court.

  How in the world did people do this for a living?

  She was exhausted as she trudged toward the wait station to grab the pitcher of water.

  “Hydration is so important!” she said in a sing-songy voice on the way to refill the woman’s glass, for the millionth time, when another table flagged her down.

  “We’ve been waiting for our check.” The man glanced at his rugged watch impatiently. Their hiking backpacks on the floor next to their chairs.

  “Oh gosh. I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back with that. You all need to get on your way.” Tracy wanted to make up for making them wait. “According to my other table, there’s a gorgeous walking trail on the way out of town if you want to walk off those yummy turkey sliders.” She smiled and they preened under her attention.

  She managed to connect the two tables of hikers and by the time she’d come back with their check, the two couples were deep in conversation about local hiking trails.

  Her humiliation was complete when the hot grumpy guy had walked in and sat at the bar. She was pretty sure he’d been a nanosecond from saying I told you so.

  But she was too tired to slug him. Even though she never would. A Thayer was always pleasant even in the face of animosity. But her Thayer genes were dead on their feet and the newly awakened Cee-Cee wanted to go HAM on his smug face.

  Her entire body ached. Her arms were sore from carrying trays of food even though she lifted weights regularly. Her trainer would be laughing his ass off at her.

  She was going to give him a piece of her mind…once she was able to move again.

  And her feet…were on fire.

  Even the tops of her feet were sore. She didn’t even know that was a thing.

  She was only supposed to be bussing tables and learning the ropes today but they were super busy and under-staffed so she’d been thrown right in the deep end.

  Tracy printed the hikers’ receipt and tucked it in a folder. She dropped it on their table and walked by the family of four.

  Shit. She’d forgotten to put their order in.

  She rushed back to the kitchen. “I forgot this.”

  The chef looked at her with more than a little disgust.

  “I’m so sorry.” She felt compelled to defend herself. “It’s my first day and I’m still getting the hang of how everything works.”

  The chef didn’t comment. “Order twenty-four is up. Then take a break. I’ll get someone else to deliver this when it’s ready.”

  A break? That sounded like heaven.

  She would never complain about writing a press release again. So many words to weigh. So many responses to anticipate, statements to craft and arguments to defend positions. But the mental intricacies were nothing compared to trying to remember ten different table’s orders.

  Tracy grabbed the order of sweet potato hash with the fried egg on top and then glanced at the check. Great.

  She headed determinedly toward the bar. She dropped the ceramic plate on the wood slab, determined to be professional. “Is there anything else you need?”

  Please say no. Please say no.

  Her feet were screaming with the need to sit down.

  “Well…” He stared at his plate.

  She hadn’t even taken the order. “Please tell me that your order is right. I didn’t even take it. I couldn’t have screwed that up!” She was a step removed from wailing.

  He snickered. “Going that well, is it?”

  She wasn’t about to admit that she had thought this would be easy. “If you’ll excuse me, I get to take a break now.”

  Where she could fall apart in peace.

  And maybe consider quitting. She could just go back to Boston and cower in her condo until this all blew over. It was probably already a memory in the news cycle, and her father and brother were just punishing her for messing up their carefully crafted plans.

  Because seriously, there had to be an easier way to make money. How in the world did people make a living doing this? Her tips had been so-so. But she couldn’t blame her customers. She was terrible.

  She knew it.

  She had never complained to a restaurant owner or chef—the press would have a field day with privilege—but she’d mentally chastised them when they’d gotten her order wrong.

  “Not as easy as it seems.”

  “I take back every bad word I ever thought about a server,” she said tiredly.

  “Good to know you can admit when you are wrong.”

  “I’d admit to killing a small animal right now if it gave me five extra minutes of break time.” She was too exhausted to couch her exhaustion in polite terms.

  “It gets easier.”

  She didn’t think she’d be finding out. She was close to telling Phoebe she couldn’t do this anymore. Forget the fact that she was down to her last hundred dollars and she only had two days left on her prepaid motel room.

  She was going home.

  Breaking news flashed across the bottom of the television screen. The past few days had been unbelievably nice. She’d been removed from the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Normally she’d be monitoring multiple channels for any topical news and making sure her father had an appropriate response ready, constantly preparing to spin his positions.

  The respite from the high-intensity atmosphere of her job had been nice. She always thought she’d go crazy if she didn’t have access to constant feedback. But she’d been surprisingly rested.

  She wondered what was happening.

  Then she saw her name. Her father’s opponent was shouting to the rooftops that her app was barely a step up from pimping and that it violated her father’s position on family values. Never mind that there were plenty of other dating apps with far racier premises and less focus on forming lasting relationships. He was demanding accountability from her. Her first instinct was to go defend her company and her vision. But she had to trust the process.

  Shit. She couldn’t leave now.

  The new bart
ender, Demetrio, was pulling drinks but his gaze kept returning to the television. She needed to distract him. Stat.

  She’d caught Anne checking out Demetrio multiple times. She had a Celtics keychain that Tracy had seen her put in her locker earlier. “Hey Demetrio, are you a sports fan?”

  “Yep.” He used the shaker to do a little dance as he samba’d his way behind the bar. He was dressed in the bar uniform but it looked anything but standard on his athletic body while he performed his sexy moves.

  “Can I take some video of you?”

  “Video?” He flushed with embarrassment. “Uh…”

  “To post on social media.”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “You’ll be an immediate viral sensation.” She smiled at him. “So what’s your favorite team?”

  He expertly poured the drink into a highball glass. “Celtics.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, totally fake. “How funny. Anne too.”

  “That wasn’t at all subtle,” grumpy hot guy said under his breath. She still didn’t know his name, but she ignored him, finished the video, and set it to some Latin music. Then she realized she couldn’t post on any of her existing accounts. As a member of her father’s press and communications team, she had an official account, plus her own personal Instagram and a Fake Instagram. She had set up the Finsta since sometimes she just wanted to be silly. But a couple of her friends knew her Finsta account, so that was out as well.

  She tapped her mouth, then shrugged. What the hell. She created a new profile, @ceeceeinthecountry and chuckled to herself as she uploaded the twenty-second video. Come for the drinks, stay for the entertainment. She tagged the Speakeasy and then wondered if the town of Colebury had an account. #countrylife #hotbartenders #ceeceeinthecountry #citygirlgoescountry #speakeasy #coleburyvt.

  Grumpy guy stayed silent as she tried to maneuver the bartender into talking to the waitress.

  “What are you doing?”

  She jumped. She hadn’t forgotten about him. She was trying desperately to ignore him. “Facilitating.”

  “Why do you care?”