Frayed (Connections #4)

Frayed (Connections #4) Page 8

“Tate’s cool with that?” I have to say I’m surprised. From what I saw of him over the summer, he seemed like a complete dick-wad.

“His only stipulation was that I not include weddings as one of my offerings, so I’ve been concentrating mainly on business events. I usually have everything delivered, but the peppered beef skewers from Pebbles are my favorite and they don’t deliver.”

“Ah . . . I definitely ate my fair share of those.”

“Right! They are so good you can’t have just one.”

I laugh.

She smiles.

The sight triggers something odd inside me, something that I haven’t felt in a very long time. Maybe it’s just that I don’t want to say good-bye to her. I’m not ready for the night to end and I don’t think she is either. I consider my options as they run through my mind. But in the end I decide to do the gentlemanly thing rather than what I really want to do—again. I have this strange feeling that she’s struggling with her emotions and I know what that’s like, as I seem to be doing the same.

“What do you say to a cup of coffee?”

She scans the parking lot. “How did you get here?”

“My bike. Why?”

“I’ll agree to go for coffee, but only if you let me drive.”

“Are you scared?”

“No!”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t want to get pulled over for not wearing a helmet.”

“That didn’t bother you the time I drove you home when you’d locked your keys in your car.”

“I was in a hurry then. It was different.”

I refrain from scoffing under my breath. “Different how?”

“I don’t know. If I had to explain to a policeman I’m sure I could think of something.”

She’s serious. I have to hide my laughter at how f**king cute she is. “Ah . . . those half-truths are easier to tell than lies.”

“Yes. That’s it.” She’s got a glow about her that’s not from the parking lot lights above us. “And, Ben”—her tone drops to a whisper—“I never got to say thank you for changing my tire.” Then she lifts her wrist. “And for the watch.”

“It was no big deal. Glad the watch has come in handy.” I decide to make light of it. I’d helped her out over the summer by changing a flat and giving her my watch when hers was broken. But I’m glad she seems to have appreciated it. I want to kiss her. I want her to come home with me. But I settle on trying to turn the quickie in the prep kitchen into something more and ask, “You hungry?”

“A little.” She smiles with that look of innocence she has about her, and the heat between us is almost unbearable.

I avert my gaze and bob my chin toward the sidewalk. “Come on, I know a great little coffee shop right around the corner with the best homemade pies. We can walk.”

Four & Twenty Blackbirds seems straight from a 1950s sitcom, all decorated in red gingham. And in keeping with the nostalgic theme, the homemade pies taste as if they’ve just come out of Grandma’s oven. The mom-and-pop place is dimly lit, but the carousel of pies is lit up in a way I’ve never noticed.

S’belle rushes over to it and splays her hands across the glass. She points to a slice. “What’s that one?”

I step close enough to whisper in her ear, “Oh, that would be their signature triple-crusted berry pie. I know it well.”

“Triple crust?” Her eyes are wide as she turns to glance back at me and licks her lips. Fuck, that’s hot.

“It’s really good.” I pat my stomach.

From this angle over her shoulder, my eyes go directly to her ample br**sts spilling out the top of what I know is a black lacy strapless bra. My c**k throbs at the sight—again. She turns her head in time to catch my stare. Her breathing picks up as if she’s reliving things too. I can see it. The light of the case highlights her freckles. I think about the way her eyes drift downward when she talks and how she lets her hair cover her face when she answers me—she’s got a quirky, sassy personality, but there’s also an innocence there.

“What’s that one?” she asks, twisting back toward the case.

“I think that’s the sweet potato pie.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Vegetables should not be put in desserts.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You have an issue with vegetables?”

“I just might,” she says sassily.

A smile tugs at my lips. “Me too.”

She’s flirting with me. I haven’t flirted with a girl in . . . Fuck, I’m not really sure I’ve ever actually flirted, except with her back in college. My pulse is racing and I think it’s time to leave the pie display before I push her up against it. I glance around. Only a few people are sitting at the communal table, so we have our choice of seats.

“Come on. The booth in the front has the best view of the street.”

We sit by the window and I notice her shiver when our thighs touch. I remove my jacket and stand to drape it around her.

“Thank you.” She pulls it closed around her body.

I catch sight of her sniffing it and although I want to bust out laughing, at the same time I find it really endearing and don’t want to ruin the moment, so I keep my mouth shut and glance down at my menu instead.

The waitress doesn’t wait for us to go to the counter to place our order. Instead she comes over to our table. “Haven’t seen you around here in a while,” she says.

“I know. I’ve definitely missed the food.”

“Ruby just left.”

“That’s too bad. I haven’t caught up with her in a while.”

The waitress whose name I don’t know pulls out her small pad of paper. “What are you two having?”

I look across at S’belle and motion for her to go first.

“Coffee with cream and sugar—oh, make it decaffeinated—and whatever pie he’s having.”

The waitress glances over to me. “Coffee, but not that decaf crap, and two slices of the triple-crusted blackberry pie.”

The waitress closes her pad. “Coming right up.”

My eyes lift toward S’belle’s, and a smile crosses her face. “Good choice.”

“Yeah, I’ve been known to make a few.” I grin at her.

A yawn escapes her mouth.

“Am I boring you?”

“No, it’s just been a long day.”

“Well, drinking decaf isn’t going to help that.”

“Yes, it is.”

I give her a questioning look.

“Coffee is coffee.”

Man, this girl is quirky . . . it’s such a turn-on.

The waitress returns with our coffees and I watch as S’belle turns hers into a cup of steamed milk. A few minutes later the pie arrives and we sit happily across from each other drinking coffee and eating pie. Glances swap back and forth and there is no doubt what we’re both thinking about.

She pushes her half-eaten slice of pie in front of her. “I’m so full. That was delicious.”

“Next time we come, you have to try the apple. It’s just as good. I promise.”

Twirling her spoon in her coffee and staring in her cup, she asks, “Who’s Ruby?”

“She’s a waitress here I met last summer. I helped her out with a few things and we got close.”

“So she was your girlfriend?”

I raise my eyebrows. “No, she’s dating my buddy now. I introduced them.”

“Oh,” she says, and I notice she hasn’t looked up from her cup yet.

Hmm . . . she’s not jealous, is she?

I feel the need to explain further.

But then she looks up with a raised brow and says, “I would never have pegged you for a matchmaker.”

I shrug and grin back at her.

Her cell phone rings and she takes it from her purse. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

I nod.

“Hello,” she answers. “No, I didn’t forget about it. I’m going to drop it off tomorrow.”

There’s a pause and her whole body tenses. “Okay, I’ll meet her first thing in the morning.”

Another pause and her eyebrows scrunch. “I didn’t know she wanted to see it first. I’m sorry.”

Without a good-bye she presses END on her phone.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She nods and I swear I see tears welling in her eyes. “That was Tate. We miscommunicated about the bride approving her cake topper for her wedding tomorrow.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Did he hang up on you?”

She lowers her gaze. “He was done talking.”

Exasperation clear in my voice, I ask, “Why are you still working for that ass**le?”

“He’s not that bad. And not only do I need the experience, but the connections I’m making are invaluable. My plan is to quit by the end of the year.”

“At least you have a plan that includes dumping him.”

She looks a little forlorn and rests her elbows on the table with her chin in her hands. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you quit your job this summer?” she asks me.

I sit forward and reach across the table for her hands. “Are you serious? That job was never for me.”

She giggles. “I was very surprised when you told me you were the wedding columnist for the LA Times.”

“I hated every f**king minute of it, but like I told you, I was in a bad place. I needed money and wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t realize staying at that job was only adding to my unhappiness.”

She sips her coffee as a couple of minutes of silence pass between us—and with all that cream in it, by now it must be cold.

“So, how did you end up acquiring both Surfer’s End and Sound Music?”

“Ah, now, that’s a story. . . .”

Time rushes by as I open up to her in a way I haven’t opened up to anyone in a very long time. I tell her about my time in Australia—which led to my freelance gig for Surfer’s End magazine and my eventual takeover of it once I had the money. I explain to her why I finally wrote the piece about the drug cartel that I had investigated—because people deserved to know. I even tell her about training Trent before he went off to college in Hawaii with hopes to compete in surf competitions.

The large silver-rimmed clock on the wall has ticked past two a.m. when I notice her glance up at it.

“Hey.” I point to the watch I gave her. “Doesn’t that work?”

She glances down at it. “No. It’s stuck on seven o’clock.”

“Is the battery dead?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. It just stopped working, but I can’t stand not having it on my wrist.”

Cocking my head to one side with a bemused expression, I find I have no words.

“Closing time.” The waitress slides the bill across the table.

S’belle grabs for it.

“I got it.”

“No, really, let me pay my share.”

“Um . . . really, I got it.”

She tosses her napkin on the table. “Thank you.”

“Not taking that one?” I point to the frayed white cloth near the pie plate.

She stands and pushes her hand against my chest. “No, it’s not monogrammed.”

Playfulness. Physical contact. Heat, lust, want, and need—all bundled into that one innocent touch. I drop my gaze to where her palm rests, but this time before I can grab her hand to lead her out the door, she pulls it away.

I toss a twenty on the table and walk backward toward the exit. “I got your number now. A discriminating thief.”

“I didn’t steal them. I borrowed them to clean up my car because I couldn’t find any towels. I told you I’m going to return them.”