by Remy Rose
“Careful, Ingrid—your claws are showing.”
“Like I said, she's standoffish. I don't have time to get all touchy-feely with her...as you apparently want to do.”
“I didn't say anything like that. I'm just somewhat interested, after meeting her here the other day.”
“You haven't been to the stable in a long time. Funny that you just happened to run into her. Perhaps it's fate.”
“Could be.”
“I don't know as she's your type.”
“And just what is my type, Ingrid?”
She smiles slyly and picks up her water bottle, running her tongue suggestively around the opening and slipping the bottle just inside her mouth. In spite of myself, I feel a growing erection. It's been a while.
Ingrid gets up from her chair and comes to stand in front of me. She's never been this bold with me before. Taking the can of beer from my hand, she sets it on her desk and leans over me, putting one hand on each arm of my chair. Her polo shirt is open to reveal sun-kissed skin and deep cleavage. I steel myself.
“Cassandra is quite young,” she says, softly. “Why go after a girl, when you could have a woman instead?”
Ah, fuck. I have no doubt Ingrid would perform satisfactorily. But getting involved with her, even temporarily, is too risky—partly because I know she'll want more. I'll have to handle this delicately, because there will be hell to pay if she feels humiliated.
“Ingrid, you're a beautiful woman. And you and I are alike in many ways. But I wouldn't want to jeopardize the strong business relationship we've had by taking things to a personal level.”
That came out even better than I’d hoped. Nailed it.
Ingrid regards me for a few seconds, then surprises me by taking my face in her hands. I don't move as she leans in. Automatically, I close my eyes as I feel her mouth on mine. And now her tongue, slipping between my lips. Christ, this is not what I want, even as my cock swells. I make the split-second decision to let her have this kiss, but that's it.
A few seconds more, and Ingrid senses it's not going any further. She pulls back, gives a bitter little laugh and returns to sit at her desk. “Of course. Always, business first.”
“I'm sorry.”
She waves a hand at me and sighs. “It would be much easier if you weren't so goddamned good-looking. But it's fine. And I do value our professional relationship.”
“Thanks, Ingrid. My mother was very smart to hire you.”
Her face softens. “You still miss her very much, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Which is why you keep this place, even though we both know you don't need it.”
“I do need it, in a way. It makes me feel good, knowing I'm taking care of animals that meant so much to my mother.”
“Paolo definitely loved her horses. And she had a gift for finding incredible ones. Which reminds me—the Devon dressage show next month. Are you going?”
“I hadn't thought about it.”
“You should. It's always spectacular. And it would bring back some nice memories of Paolo.”
“I'll think about it.” I check my watch. “I have to get back to the office. Thanks for meeting with me. And for the beer.”
“Of course. I'm all about keeping the boss happy.”
“Can I trust you not to say anything to Cassandra about this meeting? Or give her any of my personal history. That's very important to me.”
“I've always guarded your privacy, Carlo. And I'll continue to do so.”
“Thank you.”
Coming out of Ingrid's office, I almost bump into a girl looking down at her phone, texting. She looks up, first startled, then clearly embarrassed.
Ingrid sighs. “Meet my stepsister Sonya—and her phone. Sonya, this is Mr. Leone, owner of Windswept.”
“Oh! It's nice to finally meet you. Ingrid's told me a lot about you.” She extends her hand, blushing.
“I'm sure she has. Hopefully, it wasn't all bad.” I shake Sonya's hand and do my usual lightning-quick assessment of her. Twenty-ish brunette with long, curly hair pulled back under a Phillies cap. Average height, pretty face, slightly upturned nose, a little too busty for me. I'll take breasts on the smaller side any day—as a wise Frenchman once said, any more than would fit in a champagne glass is a waste.
On the other hand, I could tell that Cassandra's breasts were just the type I like. Even though she was clothed, and even though I've only seen her once.
These are two of many things that will change.
chapter five ~ Cassandra
Tucker's Brew Pub is crazy tonight. It's a popular restaurant tucked away on south Main Street, and it's usually busy, but tonight we're slammed with two opposing teams from a men's softball league—big, beefy men with their names on the backs of their t-shirts and egos as loud and obnoxious as their voices. The beer is flowing and so is the bantering back and forth between the competitors, mostly good-natured but peppered with the occasional insulting jab. I've been in a constant state of motion, weaving my way through the restaurant with heavy trays of appetizers and pitchers on my shoulders. One of the wait staff called in sick, which not only means I have to work till close, but I'll have extra tables.
FML.
I'm finishing taking the meal order for one of the psuedo-jock tables when Allison comes up beside me. “Hey...I know you're full, but there's someone in my section who specifically asked for you.”
Ugh. These requests happen every once in a while, and it's honestly more annoying than flattering, especially on a busy night like this. Plus, I don't like taking someone from Allison—she needs the tips. Her boyfriend just moved out, and she's been working extra shifts to pay her bills.
It's most likely Walter or Stan, one of the sweet old regulars, who's asking for me. “Did you tell whomever it is that I couldn't take anyone else?”
“Yup. I tried. He insisted. And I'm pissed, because he could be David Gandy's twin, and now I won't be able to flirt with him. Although he is a little young for me.”
Holy shit.
It couldn't be.
There's a fluttering in my chest that heads south. I look at Allison's round, indignant face. “Sorry. I'll go tell him myself that I'm full and that you'll have to take him.”
“Awesome,” Allison huffs. “Gotta love being second choice. Good for the ole self-esteem.”
I throw her a quick, apologetic smile as I hurry into the red room and Allison's section to look for whom I think might be there. I scan the tables: families, an elderly couple, two teenage boys, a noisy group of women who happen to be looking at a dark-haired man. Even though he's facing away from me, I know immediately that it's Carlo Leone.
He's wearing white again, but this time it's a casual jersey—short-sleeved, with a pair of dark jeans and loafer-style shoes. He's holding the menu with his arms bent in front of him, and as I approach his table, I can see the taut muscles beneath his skin, the fabric of his shirt stretched ever so slightly, and God damn. Some women are turned on by a guy's ass or the bulge in front, and while I appreciate both, it's the upper body that does it for me. Broad shoulders that you can imagine holding on to, muscular arms you can picture wrapped around you...
Stop. I slam on the brakes before my thoughts go careening out of control. It doesn't help that it's been a long time since I've slept with anyone. I know that isn't really normal (maybe it's even unhealthy), but no way in hell I want to risk getting involved with a guy—not for a long time. I learned the hard way that men are about lust, not love...fucking, not feelings. Dylan cheated on me, the few guys I dated before him were only after one thing and it wasn't my heart, and my own father had multiple affairs while Mom bore it in silence, until he finally left her for another woman. Since then, he's basically dropped off the face of the Earth, which is fine with me.
I've had some pretty major reasons to want to stay single.
Being alone isn't always fun, though—honestly, most of the time, it sucks. Sometimes I'll catch myself
glancing at other couples who seem genuinely happy. In love. And I'll feel this little twinge of envy. But I quickly come back to my senses, because alone is much safer.
So even though Carlo is sitting here in the pub, even though he looks hot just from the back, for God's sake, I brace myself as I stop at his table.
He looks up at me with a slow, lazy grin that softens the angles of his face, with eyes that seem to say, I've been expecting you. What took you so long?
I square my shoulders, willing myself to speak smoothly, evenly, like it's not at all surprising for him to be here. “Mr. Leone.”
“That's a bit formal for this type of establishment, don't you think?” His smile broadens. His face is deeply tanned against his shirt.
I'm fighting the urge to smile back. “All right. So...Carlo. I heard you asked if I could wait on you.”
“You surprise me. I expected you to ask me what I'm doing here.” His eyes are dancing.
I am absolutely not going to let on that I want to know if he’s here to see me. Or that I'm wondering how he found out where I worked. If he wasn't so goddamned charming, I'd be completely creeped out. “It would appear you're here to eat.”
He flashes me a dazzling smile. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
Is this some kind of warning? I shudder inwardly, but it's not entirely from apprehension. From the moment I met Carlo Leone, I realized there’s more to him than meets the eye.
“Mr. Leone—Carlo—I came over to tell you that my section is full. We take turns...you know, to be fair. And it's Allison's turn.”
“But Allison isn't the one I want.” His expression turns serious, determined. “I want you.”
Fuuuckk. My face feels like it could burst into flames. Cold things...think of cold things! Ice cubes and Slushees and Alaska...lying in an ice cube-filled bathtub in Alaska drinking a Slushee.
“I'm betting you can make an exception. I'll be happy to tip Allison as well.” He's looking at me expectantly.
I take a deep breath. “I'll ask her.”
I'll aska...Alaska...cold, freezing, frigid state...Jesus Christ, I'm losing it. What is wrong with me? Why don't I just say no and walk away—be done with this, with him? I quickly avert my gaze, afraid I might find the answer in his eyes.
I find Allison at the bar waiting on a drink order. “Hey. This is really awkward, but that guy is being a pain in the ass and wants me to wait on him.”
Allison snorts, shaking her head. “You seriously think I'm going to believe that bullshit? That you think he's a pain in the ass? A little credit here, please.”
“Well, he's just being really—”
“Hot?”
“Persistent. He said he'd tip you.”
Allison waves her hand dismissively and grins. “I'm just giving you crap, Cass. It's fine. As long as I get the next hottie in your section.”
“Deal.”
Okay, so I'm going to take a different approach with Carlo. That recent run-in I had with Dylan left me feeling more confident, almost empowered, and I'll show some of that to Mr. Leone. I'm rattled enough tonight with all my tables; I definitely don't need any more stress from one of the customers. No matter how gorgeous he is.
I retie my apron and smooth out the wrinkles in it on my way back to Carlo's table. He looks serene, satisfied—the expression of a man who got what he wanted. Typical for him, no doubt.
“How do you do it?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Manage to look absolutely breathtaking in a waitressing uniform. Or in work clothes at a horse stable, for that matter.”
I reach up to touch my hair and realizing that's uncouth as a waitress, shove my hand in my apron pocket. Be professional. All business. Customer...waitress...dining establishment. “What can I get you to drink?”
“I'd really like to see you with your hair down. Maybe fanned across a pillow. I'm sure you're even more stunning that way.”
I take the order pad and pen from my apron and write the word fuck in neat, small letters so I won't spontaneously combust. Clearing my throat, I draw tiny scribbles over the word until it's unrecognizable. The cooks probably wouldn't appreciate seeing that.
I'm fighting it like hell, but my gaze is drawn back to Carlo's mouth, his eyes. He's studying me intently.
And then in his face, something close to delight. Instantly, I realize the reason. He knows. He knows he is getting to me.
“Your drink order,” I say again, mentally cursing myself for the shakiness in my voice.
“What do you have on draft?”
“There's a list on the table.”
“I'd rather have you tell me.”
“We have sixty different beers on draft.”
He leans back in his chair and folds his arms, the fabric of his shirt tightening across his chest. He appears to be waiting. Driving me absolutely insane, but I speak calmly. “I do have other customers.”
Carlo grins and reaches for the drink list. “Okay...I'll stop harassing you.” He runs a finger lightly down the laminated card, and I feel tingles in unexpected places. “I'll have a Sam Summer. Tall.”
I jot down the order, aware that he’s watching my hand.
“Cassandra!” Reggie, one of the cooks, calling my name to pick up an order. I've never been so glad to hear his surly voice.
“I'll be back with your beer,” I tell Carlo, pleased that my voice now sounds a bit stronger. Just hearing Reggie yelling jarred me back into reality.
Allison is in the kitchen checking the order slips. “This for the table of Little Leaguers?”
I laugh. “Yep.”
“I'll help you. Pretty girl like you needs some protection with those bozos.”
“Thanks. They haven't been too obnoxious.”
“Ha! You mean yet. They're only on their second round.”
We carry trays to the softball team tables. The boys have gotten a little rowdier since I'd last been over.
“Heyyy, beautiful—are you on the menu?” A rugged guy with blond hair and a goatee reaches a meaty hand toward me. “Cause I'd like a taste.”
Allison lifts an eyebrow and fires me a here they go glance. I make myself busy passing the platters of burgers, ribs and pulled pork, taking care not to brush against any of them. As Allison sets down a plate in front of the goateed man, he grabs her wrist. “No, no, sweetheart—I don't want you serving me. You need to drop a few pounds. I want the hot one.”
I watch in disgust as Allison's face colors in embarrassment. Son of a bitch! Gritting my teeth, I move around the table. Customer or not, that asshole can't get away with humiliating Allison.
“Hey, sexy...we need another pitcher over here.” Blond Goatee is grinning at me.
I don't trust myself to respond verbally, so I just nod, hoping he can see I'm pissed. I wait for Allison to finish emptying her tray and we walk away together, Allison's mouth set in a firm, straight line.
“What a total prick,” I hiss.
“I'm two for two tonight...first rejected by the David Gandy lookalike and now slammed by Sweaty Balls.”
“That has-been is not going to get away with it.” I give Allison a quick hug before heading to the bar for Carlo's beer and the pitcher for the softball table, thinking of being near Carlo again and trying my damndest to clamp down on the renegade flutters leaping inside of me.
Carlo looks up as I set down his glass. “Thank you.” And then his brow furrows. “Everything all right? You look like something's bothering you.”
“Let's just say I'd rather shovel manure than serve people.”
“Trouble with a customer?”
“An occupational hazard. Nothing I can't handle. I'll be back to take your meal order. The specials are listed here.” I take a step closer to him to open up his menu, brushing his bare arm with mine, and oh, God. The feeling is almost electric. Carlo makes a sound that's somewhere between a sigh and an exhale, which only heightens everything for me.
I fumble to find the spec
ials list as I sneak a glance at his hands resting on either side of the menu. They are beautiful hands—strong-looking and tanned, with perfectly-manicured nails. Before I can stop myself, I'm imagining how they would feel in my hair, up my shirt...
The flutters again. Bad.
“I'll be back to take your order,” I repeat and quickly head to the bar without looking at him. Goddamn me for being weak. I'm almost relieved to be going back to the softball table, because there's no better way to strengthen my resolve against men than to actively despise one of them—namely, Blond Goatee, a/k/a Sweaty Balls.
“Pitcher of Bud Light, please,” I tell Eddie, the bartender. He's whistling and smiling, as usual—the epitome of everything a bartender should be. I don't know how he does it—deal with needy and often obnoxious people sharing their sad stories or worse, hitting on him. But he actually seems to enjoy it. “Think of it this way, Cass,” he once told me. “I get to cheer people up. I get paid for it. I sometimes get paid really well for it. And I can go home feeling like my life is just about perfect, compared to those poor bastards sitting at the bar.”
Eddie, I've decided, is the exception to the rule when it came to men. Kind and genuine and crazy about his fiancée. “Place is hopping tonight, huh?”
“It's nuts.” I thank him after he fills the pitcher and carry it back to the softball table. Blond Goatee is in the middle of telling a very loud story about the game, most likely embellished, while the others listen eagerly. He clearly enjoys being the center of attention. Well, thanks to me, that's going to continue—although not in a way he might appreciate.
My pulse quickens as I approach the table. I don't want to make trouble and definitely don't want to piss off my manager, Bruce, who's all about customer service and keeping people coming back—but the way Blond Goatee embarrassed Allison...I can't let him get away with that shit. This isn't revenge; it's justice.
“Here you go,” I announce innocently, leaning across the table in front of Blond Goatee. He looks up just as the contents of the pitcher spill onto him, the cold beer soaking into his shirt and darkening his white uniform.
“What the fuck!” he splutters, red-faced, as his teammates burst into laughter.