At the Next Table

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At the Next Table Page 5

by Leanne Davis


  I’m burning up, full of shame, embarrassment. All of it swirling in me. They’re the first real feelings beside rage or sadness I’ve felt in a year. I wait for whatever she’s going to say. I deserve it.

  “Now, I think Harper was important to you and she died. So it’s something about her. But not quite the routine-obsession I first thought.”

  I lean back, inhaling sharply. I detest Harper’s name from this woman’s lips. Mostly because I just propositioned her, even if I did a terrible job of it. I hold her blue-eyed gaze long and deep. Finally I ask, my tone strangled, “Someone told you?”

  “Nothing. No one’s told me anything.” She closes her black folder thing and clasps her hands together on top of it. She shifts around as she’s crossing her legs. All she needs is to perch her glasses on the end of her nose to fully complete her suddenly stately and businesslike posture. “And… do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Want to go fuck me?”

  Harper would have fainted or slapped me if I ever, at any point, said such a thing to her. She’d literally start crying if she heard me saying this. Especially to another woman, or honestly, to any woman. She would be shocked, appalled, grossed out, and she certainly would not have asked it of me in return.

  “Sure.” I shrug, smirking. Could I be less respectful? Caring? She must see the sign. I’m such a jackass there is nothing here for her. Especially if she wants any feelings or tenderness involved.

  She nods. Back straightening up. “You said Riding Rough? That’s where you drink?”

  My smirk starts to fade. I guess I predicted she’d slap me and stomp off. Or throw the coffee in my face. Or at least just get up and leave. Not… not ask me about a bar. A place to meet. Frowning, I shrug. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Whenever I’m done with my day.” Then she turns to the side, leans down, and starts fidgeting with her briefcase. It’s a second before she rises up. It’s the first time she leaves before me. She slips her fancy black folder into her bag, and I stare up at her. She’s slim and tall, with an athletic built. Her black pants are some kind of fancy material, and she wears tall, spiked heels, adding even more to her stature. My gaze rises up along her. Yeah, she’s first class gorgeous, but intimidating and so not my type. I all but gulp at thinking about trying to keep up mentally with this woman, let alone physically. She’s out of my league… but in a different way than Harper. She’s chic, sophisticated, truly big-city. Where Harper was all wholesome, hometown girl. And I was a hometown boy… just not wholesome. I had a lot to learn with Harper, but the core of us? It was there. It was the same.

  How could this crazy sophisticated woman have anything at all in common with me besides sex? I guess my crass come on wasn’t all wrong.

  She gives me a smile. It’s not the cocky, sexy, knowing one I expect, but an almost unsure, shy one, before she spins and leaves. And that’s it. It’s planned. She’s… coming to the bar? To meet me. To then what? To go… fuck? I think so, at least.

  Holy crap. Do I even want that? How could I want that with anyone else, someone new? How could she have taken me up on that?

  What have I just done?

  Chapter 4

  ALICIA

  Oh crap, how had I so missed the obvious? Harper is dead. Gone forever, but how? Who was she to him, exactly? I don’t yet know their history, but it suddenly becomes startlingly clear to me as Holden slumped and slouched and all but snarled, asking me if I want to fuck him. He thinks that’s all I could want… and definitely all he wants to offer me. He thinks he’ll scare me off, repulse me. He’s trying very hard to get away from me, and has given me plenty of warning to get away from him, too.

  The disturbing scruff and stench of alcohol on him sometimes now adds up to him not being just a drunk, or even just enjoying a night out. His look in the morning, worn, scruffy, unwashed… speaks of desperation. Sadness. Something he’s trying to find relief from. Even coming to this damn table every day seems to be a desperate attempt to… what, exactly? Soothe some kind of guilt? I think so. Did he cheat on Harper and then she died? Maybe. I hope not. But even if that’s true, he deserves some relief from his guilt and sadness and search for forgiveness.

  Even if he thinks I’ll respond to his crass and rude behavior with anger, I don’t. I try to surprise him, keep him guessing. Because to date, that seems to be the only thing that gets his head-space out of that apathetic desperation. Obviously I don’t like it. But I kind of get it, and for some reason, his sadness gets to me.

  I meet with the Barbara, president of River Runs Wild, and Jeanne Sprague, the CFO. The top positions in River Runs Wild are all women. A rare and wonderful experience to find as a working environment for a corporate lawyer such as myself. Most often before I started here, it was mostly men in these positions and I was infringing on their “good old boy” attitude. These smart, successful women make it a treat to be part of their team. Part of why I find this job so stimulating and rewarding, even if it’s full of capitalism and, yes, ‘destroying’ small-town values and aesthetics. Most resist. But once the parks open for business, the bonuses of tourism, revenues and even something for families to do, become a valued part of communities. Not all capitalism and progress is bad. But I doubt Holden-the-cowboy will ever know that.

  Finally, our strategy is set, I spend the rest of the day working on details and arguments for it. Tired, I change into jeans and ask around for direction to Riding Rough. I roll my eyes at the name each time I say it. It’s easy to find, and I drive my company-rented car to get there. Before getting out of the car, I tug my hair behind my ear—it’s down and free—and I check my makeup in the mirror. I touched it up before leaving the bed and breakfast to make it eye catching and far darker than it was earlier in the day.

  My stomach jumps with nerves as I enter the dark and gritty bar. It’s an old building with plain, unfinished boards for a floor. The interior is gloomy with shutters over the windows. Two pool tables take up the center floor space, and stools line the bar and tables dot past that. It’s dim and my boot’s spiked heels and shiny black leather scrape on the floor. I gulp. Wow, talk about out of my usual. What’s the absolute opposite of Lover’s Landing? This is it. Lover’s Landing is bright, full of light and warm voices. The scents are lovely with coffee and pastries. Here? Dark and low ceilings that feel like they trap you in. Scents of sweat and alcohol mingle and gag me. It’s the negative antithesis of everything I’d loved in Lover’s Landing when I first walked in it.

  He’s here. Holden sits facing forward at the bar, staring down at the glass before him filled with amber liquid. His hat is on, pulled low over his forehead. I hold in my breath. I can do this. I can be this. I want to do both. I’m away from home. From my life. There is nothing wrong in… having sex. Having a healthy, wanted sexual relationship with someone I am obviously attracted to since that’s why I first noticed his morning routine. Doing this is appropriate and my right.

  Why, then, am I so nervous?

  I just gave a presentation in front of one-fourth of the town’s citizens, when they were angry to boot, as well as before the city council, and that didn’t make me break into even a light sweat. Nope. I was energized, excited, and clear-spoken, and said every single thing I planned on and in the order I wanted. When questions were shot off to me like gunfire, oh I was right there like the perfect target, catching and deflecting them.

  But a sad, drunken cowboy who is hung up on someone named Harper? Sweat beads on my forehead. I’m almost shaking. No! I’m ready for this. I want this. I can do this.

  Or I could run and never show up anywhere near here or Lover’s Landing again, hiding out the rest of my limited time in Love and be done with it. Him. This feeling. This odd, unfamiliar feeling of uneasiness that’s filling me. I detest it. It’s making me weak and silly feeling.

  I steel my resolve, flip my shoulders back, jut out my chin, and all but march up to him. I will pretend I’m the sophisticated man-eater I beli
eve he thinks me to be. I stop beside him, take a breath for courage, and slip onto the empty stool next to him. He turns his head, just enough to look at me. He doesn’t respond or acknowledge me at first. He tosses back the rest of his liquor, then finally swivels toward me on his stool. He sets an elbow on the bar, and his other arm snakes out to rest on the edge of the stool I inhabit. Glancing down, I’m surprised at his closeness and the way he’s boxed me in on the stool. This is not the Holden of Lover’s Landing. Of course, the glaze in his eyes tells me he’s been on his stool with his amber liquid for quite a while.

  “You showed up.”

  “I said I would.”

  “And you do what you say, Seattle?”

  “Yes,” I answer, my tone crisp and clear. His is not. “How long have you been here?”

  “Couple of hours,” he slurs. His heavy-lidded gaze is on me, taking a long time to travel downward to my leather boots and all the way back up, lingering on my breasts before finally coming back to my face. “You look different.”

  “Wow, sweep me away, cowboy.”

  “Well, you do.”

  “I’m not going to work.”

  “Right. Lawyer-Alicia is gone?”

  “Yes, but cowboy-Holden is not, huh?” I put a hand up to grab the bartender’s attention and order a Mojito.

  Holden whistles. “Figured you for a wine drinker.”

  “I am. But not the wine they have here.”

  He sniffs and wrinkles his nose. “Snob, huh?” Then he asks for another drink before turning back to me, again boxing me in. “Well, strangely, on you it’s kind of sexy.”

  “I am a snob, but only about wine.” I squint at him. “Why would snobby be sexy?”

  “It’s not something I can be.” He swipes his hand over himself. “Come off it, Seattle, I’m a ranch hand.”

  My drink comes, and I pull money out of my purse. He sets a hand on my wrist pushing my money away. Startled, I turn to him. He’s pulling his wallet out. “I got your drink. Don’t argue. I know, you’re the rich city-woman, but I asked you…”

  He glances my way, puzzled how to continue as he realizes in his drunken haze just how he asked me to come here. “But I’m an ass. And I owe you a drink because I am. And maybe an apology.”

  “Are you? Apologizing?”

  “Yeah.” He doesn’t elaborate any more. Somehow, I laugh at his almost-apology. And yet it means a lot to me. I roll my eyes, but also, it’s nice. There are certain chivalries I like, but so far Holden has shown zero, zilch, nada. I have no one to blame but myself for that as well. He’s had to put out no finesse into getting me here. When I get burned for trying to… fix, or help or care for or whatever I’m doing here, well, it’ll be my own fault. The man is so obviously broken, not just suffering from a bad case of OCD. Sigh. I wish now it were the OCD.

  I nod and give him a little ‘cheers’ with my glass. His eyes stay on me as I take a long drink.

  “You really don’t look like a lawyer tonight.”

  “What does a lawyer look like?”

  “Not tall, red-haired and sexy.”

  “Well, I am all those and a lawyer. And before we go any further, Holden, what’s your last name?”

  “You don’t know it?”

  I shake my head. “No. You don’t say much about yourself, cowboy.”

  He sighs. “It’s Thatcher.”

  I put my hand out. He stares down, and I use my eyes to say shake my hand. “Holden Thatcher, I’m Alicia Anderson.”

  I give him a firm shake. He snorts. “Alicia Anderson, in case you misunderstood, I don’t want to shake your hand.”

  “Well, Holden Thatcher, you owe me that much.”

  Our hands still hold each other. He glances down when he realizes I’ve adjusted our hold so I folded his fingers in mine. “I know.”

  This time there’s no scowl, no slur. Just a quiet statement. My eyeballs dart to meet his. He’s glancing down at our joined hands as if he’s never seen hands before. Or maybe he’s shocked how his got to be right there. His head tilts up, our eyes finding each other. It’s an oddly intimate moment for how long we stare. It feels like the rest of the roughshod room disappears, and the crack of pool table balls and gruff, constant laughter and grunts of the guys around us fades away from me. I’m so unsure about this, but for some strong reason I feel sure about him. Somehow, in all his crazy coffee-routine and Harper-whatever business, I sense something deep and real about this man.

  I let go of his hand, confused why our gazes are so locked, and it sends odd ripples down my spine and all the way to my toes. It’s way too much to feel. Way, way too much. I can’t handle it from a stranger I’ve barely just gotten the name of, even if we have spent time together the past several weeks.

  Then we face forward, sipping our drinks. It helps ease the moment. As I tip the last of the liquor down my throat, he asks, “What do you do in Seattle besides lawyering?”

  I smile. He’s never really shown an ounce of interest to lead the conversation. It flares up a bright light of hope in my chest. He’s trying… as much as Holden will try. “I often go downtown; there are a zillion different places to eat or get drinks. Think any food in the world, and I can tell you the best restaurant to find it in. I love that. I rarely cook, so I love to go out. Sometimes I might wander around the waterfront, Pike Place Market… Do you know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the oldest, yet still operating farmer’s market in the country. It has wonderful displays of farm goods, seafood, and craftsmen… oh the stuff is sometimes crazy. Jewelry to kites to fish. I love the variety and the finds.”

  “Sounds gimmicky.”

  “It’s touristy, but I actually buy a lot of my food there.”

  “Huh. What about the needle thing.”

  I bite my lip to hold in a laugh. “The Space Needle?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “Is that what you know about Seattle?”

  “That and it has bad traffic and rains a lot.”

  “It does. But the Space Needle is awesome. The glass floor on the top spins around the full circle. It’s worth seeing. But living there, I haven’t been up in it for a decade, probably. There’s tons of stuff to show visitors, from the Seattle Center to the Pioneer Square, to the aquarium, oh and Woodland Park Zoo. I actually enjoy going there. I have this friend, he’s a vet technician exclusively for the zoo and can show us some behind the scenes stuff.” I tilt my head with a small smile. “If you ever come visit, I could show you stuff for a week.”

  He scoffs. “I doubt I’ll be visiting Seattle in my lifetime. Nothing for me in a city. I hate ‘em. I hate every moment in one, even driving through Savannah.”

  “God, tell me that’s not the only city you’ve been in.”

  He smiles. “Okay. I won’t tell you that.”

  I groan. “You’re for real?”

  “I grew up here, started working while still in high school, got ma—” he cuts himself off. I want to ask what he next did here, but he turns forward, expression stony. “Anyway, growing up there was never money to go anywhere, and I guess once I was working I had bills to pay and never really had anywhere I wanted to go. And that is triply true for big cities.”

  Stung, I turn away as I mumble, “Well, if that ever changes, there is tons to do.”

  He pushes his drink away, his mood instantly darker. He stands up and sways. “So… should we?”

  My stomach knots at his words, at his stance. Decision time. But he’s so messed up, I’m more worried about simply getting him home. So I nod. “Sure. Did you drive yourself?”

  “Nope. I can walk from here.”

  “I’ll drive, then.”

  He nods as he follows me out to my rental car and ducks inside. The drive is silent and I grip the steering wheel, squeezing periodically to ease my tension. Wow, this feels strange. What am I doing? What is this? Why am I involving myself with a guy who hates cities and lost Harper? Whateve
r that means. I just know it means a lot. And perhaps that bleeding heart I have, and hide from my work, is rearing its nasty, vulnerable head at this circumstance. Whatever the loss is, it drives this man to an odd, daily, and dedicated ritual in honor of their time together.

  I’ve yet to fully make sense of it.

  We go down the quiet, dark road with not one streetlight and only a handful of house or yard lights to break up the darkness as I drive. Buildings clustered together here and there are all that break up the land. He only speaks with directions. Finally, my headlights sweep over a two-story, Victorian-style house, but he takes me past that to a tall red barn. He has me stop there, and we get out to enter the barn, or so I think. Instead, we go up some stairs directly to the right of the door and up into a converted hayloft-turned-apartment. It’s a single long room, his bed on one end and a couch on the other. A small kitchen unit is in between with a door to a bathroom there as well.

  He clicks a lamp on. It’s soft and dull, which I’m glad of. Nerves have me rubbing my clammy hands together. “You ever been in a barn before?”

  “No.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Seattle, there isn’t one thing we recognize in each other. What we like. What we do. Where we live. How we live.”

  “No. There isn’t.”

  “Maybe that’s the damn draw, huh?”

  I nod. “I think it is.”

  He steps toward me, and my heart starts hammering in my chest. As he comes close, he raises a hand toward me, his fingertips sliding over the side of my face to cup my jaw, his mouth compelling me closer.

  “You should go. Really, Alicia.”

  “I think you don’t want me to go, but you’re afraid if I stay. Because of Harper? There’s been no one since?”

 

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