Forever With You

by Beverley Kendall

  “Here’s what I suggest you do,” she says like the much wiser older sister. “Now that you know where he works, you go to his job and you apologize. Do it quick. And whatever else happens—” She gives a small shrug “—is going to happen. But at least you’ll have done what you’ve been wanting to do. At least you’ll get it off your chest.”

  “I envy your optimism. That I’ll be able to get the words out before he does who knows what. Tells me to bugger off.” I’m pretty sure people still use that term in England.

  “You have to be willing to take the risk because there’s a chance—maybe even a good one—that he’ll be far from receptive. He may even tell you to go to hell. If I were you, I wouldn’t do it unless and until you’re okay with that.”

  And that’s the million-dollar question. “That’s a hard one.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  “You must know I am.”

  “Will you still be sorry if he refuses to forgive you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then at least let him know that. Right now, he probably thinks he doesn’t want an apology from you, but deep inside I think he feels he’s owed one regardless.”

  With her words, a sense of steely resolve steals over me. She’s right. He’ll get an apology from me—with me looking him directly in the eye—whether he wants it or not.

  Chapter 4

  It’s official. I’m a stalker.

  Isn’t this what stalkers do? Hunker down in cars waiting for their target to materialize? But first I’d called his job last night to see if he’d be working today. I’d lied and told the guy who’d answered that Graham had forgotten his credit card at a local grocery store. The guy hadn’t thought twice about telling me Graham would be opening today and thanking me for returning the card in person.

  Another case where my desperation had overridden my pang of guilt.

  Parked in the lot beside Zenith’s, I observe a dark-blue, two-door Honda pull up at 10:15 AM on the dot. I can immediately tell from the tawny color of the driver’s hair that it’s him. Since the bar opens at 11:00 and Graham is opening, I figured he’d arrive thirty to forty-five minutes early.

  I wait until he unlocks the front door and enters before I drive over and park closer to his car. I approach the front with a certain amount of caution and a body full of raw nerves.

  I test the door and find that it glides open easily when I pull the handle. Out of the bright sunlight, I step inside. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior.

  “We’re not opened—” In the process of removing the chairs from on top the tables surrounding the bar, his voice breaks off when he sees me. He drops the one in his hands and it lands with a quiet thump on the parquet floors.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters loud enough for me to hear. Then he shakes his head, the resigned and weary kind that makes me think he’s reached the end of his patience. “What is it you don’t get about the words ‘stay the hell away from me’?” He narrows his eyes and folds his arms across his broad chest.

  If he’s trying to look intimidating, he’s doing a fabulous job.

  Steadying my wavering resolve, I advance tentatively toward him. “Hi.”

  A cruel smirk twists his mouth as he coldly regards me. “Don’t tell me, you’re the girl who found my credit card.”

  My face burns and I clutch my leather purse strap like it’s a lifeline. “I wanted to make sure you’d be here.” That timid little voice you hear? That’s mine. I could also use a bit of saliva so I don’t sound as if I ate sandpaper for breakfast. But apparently, the glands that produce it have gone on strike.

  His gaze grows more hooded the closer I get. I halt when I’m within several arm lengths of him, and that’s when my nostrils pick up the scent of his cologne. It’s woodsy and musky and makes me want to do nothing but inhale.

  Snap out of it! Don’t you dare go down that road. He’s attractive but you cannot let yourself become attracted to him again. There’s that little thing about him not wanting to have anything to do with you. With that admonishment, I do my best to ignore how good he looks in the management uniform of black jeans and a fitted black t-shirt.

  “Then you’ve wasted a trip.”

  Hard words from a hard man.

  I muster up more courage. “Please, I just want a couple minutes of your time and then I’ll leave. Promise.”

  Turning, he puts more distance between us and grasps the stool on the bar by its rungs, flips it so it’s right side up and sets it on the floor. “Your promises mean nothing. Now, I going to give you ten seconds to leave.” The most hurtful part of his dismissal is his refusal to look at me, the words tossed callously over his shoulder as he resumes his work.

  After what I put him through, I can’t blame him for the way he’s acting. I deserve this. But he deserves and is owed what I have to say to him. “I tried to get in touch with you after—after everything happened.”

  He goes motionless, then slowly turns to me. His glare could melt stone. “You can’t even say it, can you? What you did. You can’t even say the damn words. Is that how you were able to sleep at night whilst I was locked up in that cage?”

  Stricken, I furiously shake my head, turning my ponytail into a whip that nearly comes close to taking my eye out. “No. That’s not it at all. I hate what I did to you.”

  “You didn’t once think about anyone but yourself,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “You were so used to wiggling your arse and jiggling your tits to get whatever you wanted. Well, congratulations, it worked. You really pulled the wool over my eyes. I can’t believe I actually fell for your whole act.”

  Act? What? “No, no, I wasn’t pretending. I honestly lo-cared about you.” I pray he didn’t catch my stumble. He probably doesn’t believe I knew a thing about love back then despite the fact I’d told him I loved him.

  “Not enough to tell me the truth.”

  My throat constricts. I hate that nothing I can say will dispute that. Nothing. More guilt piles onto the mountain’s worth I’ve acquired over the years.

  He wearily shakes his head and stares at me. “You don’t get it, do you? What you did to my life.”

  If I ever thought I couldn’t hurt any more, that my sense of guilt could not possibly be greater, Graham just proved me wrong.

  “I know there’s nothing I can say—”

  “No there’s not. Now get out,” he bites out, his jaw tight and his eyes frigid.

  “Graham, please.” My voice wavers, collapsing into a heap of entreaty at the end.

  “Please what?” he sneers, leaning back and bracing his forearms against the bar. “I said everything I wanted to say to you the last time we spoke. Leave me the fuck alone. And that sentiment doesn’t have an expiration date. But if you want to know what happened to the letters you sent, I ripped them up and burned the pieces in the kitchen sink. And I didn’t listen to a single message you left. I deleted them and blocked your number.”

  I make a choked sound in my throat. That hurts. It hurts bad.

  Suddenly, he pushes off the bar and walks slowly toward me. My breathing instantly becomes agitated puffs of air as I stand frozen in place.

  “Don’t you get it, little girl,” he taunts, drawing close enough for me to be able to make out the dark-blue ring around his irises. “I don’t want your apology.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Now ask me what I want.”

  I remain mute, suspending my breath and wishing I could do the same with my hearing. He’s going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not. And I know full well I won’t like what he has to say.

  “What I want is to go the rest of my life without having to see your face again.” Smiling coldly, he calmly takes a step back and points at the double doors. “Now, for the last time, get the fuck out.”

  I used to be a much nicer guy. I’m not kidding. You know, the type who took life as it came and didn’t sweat the small stuff. Despite my parents’ divorce—or maybe because of
it—I had a great childhood. I grew up with parents who loved me and an awesome bunch of friends. I lived in nice homes both in England and the States, and traveled all over Europe and North America. I wanted for nothing. I got my first car on my sixteenth birthday and that’s also the year I got my first job. Cars require maintenance, insurance and gas to run and money doesn’t grow on trees—my mum’s words—so I wasn’t one of those spoiled, silver-spoon ingrates. Good grades came easy and women even easier. (No pun intended).

  Speaking of women.

  My jaw clenches and my hands curl into fists as I watch Emily depart. When my gaze touches on her jean-clad butt, I hurriedly look away.

  She might be a woman now, but she’d been a girl back then.

  I hate that she brings out the worst in me—something I’ve only recently come to realize. She’s the switch that activates Mr. Hyde, and she doesn’t have to do much. Simply look at me with that woebegone expression and I’m driven halfway around the bend. But if she thinks that if she looks sad enough, sorry enough, long enough, I’ll eventually cave, she’s got another think coming.

  I used to have a weak spot for her. Now that place inside me has solidified into a block of granite—something she doesn’t seem to understand. She’ll get it eventually. I’ll make damn sure she does because unfortunately, I doubt I’ve seen the last of her.

  Sunlight infuses the room at the opening of the front door and that’s when my gaze drifts back to her. I’m surprised to see my boss coming in since he’s not supposed to be working today. Stepping to the side, he holds the door for her to go out, flashing her a toothy grin. I have no idea how she responds, nor do I care. He makes a full half circle to stare at her as she walks away.

  After he’s apparently had his fill, he turns and walks in, the door closing behind him. Eyes lit with male appreciation, he addresses me. “Very nice. You know her?”

  John’s met Liane so he knows Emily can’t be my girlfriend.

  “No.” Truth. I don’t know her and I never did.

  He joins me at the bar. “No? Then what was she doing here? What’d she want? More importantly, is she single?” The last question is accompanied by a suggestive lift of his brows.

  I go back to removing the stools from on top of the bar, something that has to be done every time the floors are cleaned. John will talk my ear off if I let him, and I’m not feeling all that chatty right now.

  “What she is is too damn young for you,” I mutter, hoping my tone gets my message across. I don’t want to talk about her.

  “I thought you didn’t know her?”

  “I don’t. But I don’t have to to be able to see that.”

  “As long as she’s not jailbait, I’ll be fine,” he says with a laugh.

  I place the stool down on the floor with more force than necessary. Jailbait. The word hits me hard in my sore spot.

  “Shit, I thought you’d draw the line at dating someone young enough to be your daughter,” I say, scowling. John’s forty-three according to Blake. Emily isn’t even twenty-one.

  “What crawled up your ass and died today?” he calls over his shoulder as he passes me on his way to the dining area.

  “The same thing that’s up yours,” I shoot back.

  He turns back to me. “God, Graham, you Brits are so fucking uptight. Can’t you take a joke? I’m too damn old for someone her age. Shit, she can’t be much older than Seth. When it comes to girls her age, I’m in the god-I-wish-I-were-in-my-twenties and the see-but-don’t-touch stage. So while she’s pretty as a picture and since you already have a girlfriend, I had her in mind for Blake. Tall and gorgeous is right up his alley, don’tcha think?”

  Everything in me revolts. Not just against the idea of Blake going out with that selfish, lying bitch, but of my best friend dating my ex. And don’t go getting the idea that there’s anything territorial about it. I have no claim on her nor do I want to. But if there were a rulebook governing relationships, the number one rule would be that friends never ever—I can’t stress that enough—date a friend’s ex. It never works. Anyway, that’s something I don’t have to worry about. Blake wouldn’t touch Emily with a ten-foot pole. He knows what she did and, sight unseen, he feels the same as I do about her.

  “I’m pretty sure Blake doesn’t need your help getting women,” I state dryly. “By the way, what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming in today?” Now is a good time to change the subject.

  In the dining room, John moves swiftly from table to table, taking down the chairs. “I forgot to send in the drink order last night. After I’m done, I’m out.”

  Seeing him moving so fast, I pick up my pace, tackling the ones at the bar and the surrounding tables.

  For about a minute, we work in silence, before he asks, “Are you going to tell me what she was doing here or not?”

  I wonder if he timed it on purpose. Asking me when I have my back to him. After a discernible pause, I gently place the last chair on the floor before turning around.

  He raises an eyebrow. “What, you thought I’d forget you never answered?”

  “Just someone looking for a job. I told her we’re not hiring.” Right now, lying is easier than telling the truth, and it’s the quickest way of ending this conversation once and for all.

  John’s brow furrows, his hands propped on his hips. “What do you mean we’re not hiring? Didn’t Sylvia tell you Dani gave notice on Friday?”

  Fuck. No, Sylvia didn’t tell me, but it’s a good thing I think quick on my feet. “She wouldn’t have worked out anyway. She’s never waitressed before and we can’t afford on-the-job training.”

  Now John’s eyeing me as if he’s not sure he can believe the bullshit I’ve been feeding him. Cynical Americans. For a second, I’m afraid he’s going to follow up with a question I can’t bluff my way through. But to my relief, he simply lets out a laugh and shakes his head.

  “You’re lucky you’re such a good-looking son of a bitch and have that fancy accent of yours, because that’s literally all you got going for you. Personally, I don’t see what women see in you.”

  I can’t help but smile. When a man delivers a backhanded compliment to another man, tongue-in-cheek is definitely the way to go.

  “From now on, if anyone comes around looking for work, give them an application. If I’m here and not busy, I’ll give ’em an interview on the spot.” He pauses and then mutters to himself. “Save me a goddamn advertising fee.”

  Propped against a small metal cabinet in his office is the Help Wanted sign I know he’s going to stick in the window near the entrance. That’s as much as he’s willing to pony up in advertising fees when he’s looking for servers.

  “Yes, sir.” I give him a cheeky military salute.

  “Tonight, I want you to make sure—”

  Light flooding the interior from the opening of the front door has our heads jerking in its direction.

  Emily steps inside. She looks different. Her expression isn’t tentative or nervous.

  My heart slams hard against my sternum. I swallow something—maybe it’s my tongue.

  Remember when I said that sometimes lying was easier than telling the truth? Today must not be one of those times and I have a bad feeling I’m about to eat the words of every lie I just told.

  Chapter 5

  I’m such a dolt.

  I’m weak.

  My feelings are too easily hurt.

  That’s the effect Graham has on me.

  This I concluded as I’d berated myself in my car. And my call to April had only served to further remind me of what a failure I was.

  So, how did it go? Did you talk to him? Did you apologize? How did he react?

  I’d told her the truth. That he hadn’t given me a chance to get a word in while he’d skewered me cleaner than a barbecue shish-kebob. She hadn’t bought it.

  Two words? I’m sorry. You couldn’t work that into the conversation?

  It hadn’t been a conversation. It’d been a casti
gation. He’d told me in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want my apology. Then he’d told me to get the hell out, and I’d left with my tail between my legs, trying my hardest to hold back tears.

  Nothing had gone as I’d hoped. Why hadn’t I just come out and said it? Why do I have this overwhelming need to explain myself? That’s when I’d made the decision to go back, but this time I’d say only what needs to be said.

  I’m sorry.

  And I won’t allow him to scare me off with his glower or cruel words. Nope. Not this time. He can be pissed at me all he wants, but I’m going to have my say if it kills me. He may not need or want my apology, but I need to get it off my chest. My heart. It may not completely rid me of the shame and guilt I’ve carried around for years, but if nothing else, it’ll be cathartic.

  When I open the door to the bar and step in, the older guy—the one who held the door for me on my way out—is staring at me. He’s smiling as if he’s happy to see me, and not in a pervy way.

  “I’m glad you came back,” he says and begins walking toward me. A few inches taller than me and possessing a solid muscular build, he’s average-looking with brown eyes and longish dark-brown hair. His smile exudes a certain youthfulness that makes it difficult to pinpoint his age. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s in his mid-to-late thirties.

  I send Graham a questioning look, but I’m met with a blank stare.

  The man halts in front of me, gesturing to Graham, who has yet to move a muscle unless you count the tick of his jaw. “You’re going to have to excuse my assistant manager. He didn’t know we were hiring when you spoke to him.”

  The puzzle pieces immediately fall into place. It’s clear how Graham explained my presence.

  Without giving it a second thought, I play along. “Um yes. I realized I didn’t leave my contact information just in case a position opens up in the future.” I give a small shrug. “No harm in trying.”