Going Deep
Page 31
Worse, if she asked another server to take the table, the kids would wonder why. In milliseconds, they’d peg Hawthorn for a cop and start asking questions that would lead them to her past, to the mistakes she’d made, to the girl she’d left behind. Right now her goal was to serve him and get him out of the restaurant before anything happened to jeopardize the life she’d built.
Besides, it had to happen sometime, meeting him again. She’d been dreading this for the last six years. Might as well get it over with, so she could move on. He was her past; the Oasis was her future.
Shoulders squared, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then plucked her notebook from her apron as she walked to the table. “Welcome to the Oasis. My name’s Riva and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
The look on his face when she started talking was priceless, almost worth what it cost her to walk across the floor and talk to him. Eight years earlier, Officer Ian Hawthorn had been all cop, lacking a sense of humor or a personality. His robotlike personality scared her, the implacability of it, the way he assessed situations, events, people, summed them up, then discarded them or used them, however best suited him. But when he paused in the act of lifting open the flap on his laptop bag and looked at her face, his jaw literally dropped open.
Priceless.
Then his gaze skimmed her from her ponytail to the tips of her clogs. She knew how it looked, wearing the same uniform as the other servers, black pants and blouse buttoned to her collarbone, her makeup subdued to the point of pale and nondescript. In every way she was conscious of setting an example for the kids from the ESCC. His reaction time, always quick, hadn’t dulled. A split second to look her over, the sharp flick of his gaze striking sparks she felt from her earlobes to her nipples to deep in her belly. That’s what it had been like, his gaze flint against the tinder of her young, impetuous desire.
Then he shut his mouth, and the laptop bag. “Hi, Riva.”
She ignored that. “Can I get you something to drink while you look at the menu? We have craft beers from several of the local breweries.”
He looked at the menu, then back at her. “Water. Thanks.”
Her skin crawled as she spun on her heel and walked away. The look in his eyes before he adopted the all-too-familiar expressionless demeanor had been shock, then pity. When she’d met him she’d been a college student. Now, to his eyes, she was a waitress. She felt nineteen years old again, running through every single thing she said to Ian, every look, every shift of her body, frantically trying to reassure herself she hadn’t given anything away.
I’ll be taking care of you today. It sounded like an innuendo. God knew she’d thrown enough of them at him, desperate, angry, humiliated, pushing back the only way she could. He’d held all the cards, and she’d hated him for it.
“It was your fault,” she muttered as she poured ice water into a glass. “You were the stupid one. He just did his job.”
She snagged a warm bread basket from the kitchen. “We still have the salmon?”
“Got plenty,” Isaiah called from the stove.
When she came back out, Hawthorn was staring at his laptop screen. She set the bread basket on the table. “Are you waiting for someone?” He had to be waiting for someone.
“No. Just me.”
Her heart did a traitorous little skip in her chest. He was alone. Why was he alone? She gathered the silverware and bread plate from the spot across from him. “Do you have any questions about the menu? We’re a farm to table restaurant,” she started. “The origins for the ingredients are noted on the menu. With the exception of the salmon, they’re all from Rolling Hill Farm, or other farms around Lancaster. The rib eye comes from a ranch up the road. We harvested the asparagus this afternoon, and the Brussels sprouts this morning.”
His gaze was no less piercing, six years later. “What do you recommend, Riva?”
He used her first name like he always had, like he had a right. The only reason she knew his first name was Ian was because she’d heard other cops call him that.
Assuming his tastes hadn’t changed in the last seven years, she knew what he liked well enough to answer that question. Nights sitting next to him in an unmarked police car often included a run through a drive-through window, so she knew he preferred grilled chicken to burgers, salads to fries. She’d spent enough time with cops to know their diets were frequently atrocious; the Eastern precinct smelled of sweat, gun oil, coffee, and fast food grease. “The steak is our specialty, and very good but tonight I’d recommend the salmon. Chef Isaiah developed the sauce. It’s a grapefruit and shallot sauce, very light, and it’s delicious.”
“Does it come with the asparagus?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have that.”
“Wine with the meal? Beer?”
He scanned the wines listed on the back. “A glass of the Shale white,” he said.
Dismissed. She hurried to the kitchen and put in the order, then poured a glass of wine. She left the glass with him, touched base with her other tables, and brought more bread and a second beer to the first-date couple, who had both set aside their phones and were leaning over the table, actively engaged in conversation. She watched them from the safety of the server’s station. It was an experience she hadn’t allowed herself in seven years, and the reason why was sitting at table fourteen. Any relationship more serious than a casual hookup would require her to either tell the truth about who she’d been, or found a relationship on lies. She couldn’t bring herself to do either.
With no appetizer, his meal should be ready in under twelve minutes. At the ten-minute mark she ducked into the kitchen. Isaiah meticulously wiped a dab of sauce from the edge of the plate, then presented it to her with a flourish. She gave the kitchen staff a thumbs up, took the plate from him, and carried it through the door.
On the way to the table she ran through the ways she could tell him he was wrong about her, that she wasn’t just a waitress—except there was nothing wrong with being a waitress—that she owned this building, the farm it sat on, and the tiny house hidden in the folds of the valley, too, that she’d been able to get loans, pay them back on time, help others. But in the end, she couldn’t change the past, and she knew perfectly well that of all people, Officer Ian Hawthorn had no reason to give her the benefit of the doubt.
She set the plate in front of him without comment. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No. Thanks.” He picked up his knife and fork.
“I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
The first-date couple ordered two bowls of ice cream drizzled with hot, dark chocolate and topped with raspberries. Head held high, she walked to the first-date couple’s table and set out their desserts. “Enjoy,” she said with a smile.
A couple of short yelps from the kitchen, an Oh fuck! audible throughout the dining room. The swinging door to the kitchen slammed against the wall. Her nose knew first, the stench of acrid smoke already filtering into the room. Three strides and Riva was through the door. A grease fire roared on the stove, spattering everyone in the vicinity with burning oil. Isaiah was on his knees in front of the big stainless stove. Beside him, Jake swatted at the fire with his dish towel, the surest way to injure himself.
“Stop!” Riva barked.
Jake stopped.
“It’s a grease fire,” she said. A small one, at that, but fire was fire. Her voice was calm, only slightly louder than normal, but it got the attention of every kid in the room. “Work the plan. Step one.”
Galvanized, Jake scrabbled at the knob controlling the gas heat and first turned it up. “Shit,” he said when the flames spurted for the range hood. He twisted the knob the other direction and the gas died.
Kimmy-Jean had a big water pitcher filled. Arm extended, Riva stepped in front of her. “Step two.”
“I’m on it.” Isaiah came up with the lid matching the cast-iron pan and slammed it down on the pan, effectively throttling the flames. Oi
ly black smoke hung around the now-silenced stove.
“It was a small fire, so what else would have worked?” Riva said.
“Baking soda. Lots of it,” Jake said.
“Right. Remember that only works for small fires. What don’t you do?”
“Pick up the pot,” three of the kids responded. She had them now, back in their brains and bodies, connected to themselves, each other, her. “You’ll burn yourself,” Kiara added.
“Good. What else don’t you do?”
“Throw water on it.”
“Why?”
“Because water won’t put it out, and the splatter can spread the flames or burn someone.”
“Sorry,” Kimmy-Jean whispered, her pale face flaming almost as brightly as the fire had. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do,” Riva said gently. “This one didn’t spread. What if it had?”
“Fire extinguisher,” Kiara said.
As one, everyone in the kitchen turned to look at the brand-new extinguisher, hanging on the wall beside the door to the dining room.
Where Ian Hawthorn stood, just inside the door, his laptop clasped loosely in his hand.
All the air sucked back out of the room, like he was the still center of a black hole. “Po-po in the house,” someone murmured.
Also by Anne Calhoun
Under the Surface
The SEAL’s Second Chance
The SEAL’s Rebel Librarian
The SEAL’s Secret Lover
Praise for Anne Calhoun
“Uncommonly good storytelling.”
—Beth Kery, New York Times bestselling author
“Scintillating sexual chemistry.”
—Lauren Dane, New York Times bestselling author
“Anne Calhoun … tugs at your heart.”
—Jill Shalvis, New York Times bestselling author
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Calhoun is the author of a number of romance novels and novellas, including the acclaimed novel Liberating Lacey, which won the EPIC Award for Best Contemporary Erotic Romance and was chosen as one of NPR’s 100 Swoon-worthy Romances. Anne holds a BA in History and English, and an MA in American Studies from Columbia University. When she’s not writing, her hobbies include reading, yoga, and horseback riding. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, son, and rescue dog, and has recently overcome her Starbucks addiction.
Visit her website at annecalhoun.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Preview: Turn Me Loose
Also by Anne Calhoun
Praise for Anne Calhoun
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
GOING DEEP
Copyright © 2016 by Anne Calhoun.
Excerpt from Turn Me Loose copyright © 2016 by Anne Calhoun.
All rights reserved.
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St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / November 2016
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