by Remy Rose
I stifle a grin, putting a hand to my mouth and exclaiming in mock chagrin. “Oh my God, I'm so sorry...I don't know how that happened!” I hastily pull napkins from my apron pocket and offer them to him. As our eyes meet, I see in his steely gaze that he knows. And he’s livid.
Shrugging off the uneasy feeling creeping up my spine, I apologize again and go to order another pitcher from Eddie. He raises his eyebrow when I tell him I spilled it, and I hurry away before he can question me. I don't look at Blond Goatee as I carefully set down the replacement pitcher in front of another player who is still chuckling.
I check on my two other tables and then go back to Carlo, addressing him in my friendly waitressing voice. “What would you like?”
He regards me thoughtfully, a smile playing with his lips. “I'm looking at it.”
I'm feeling like a pinball machine, every comment he makes ricocheting around inside of me. If any of the jockstraps in the other room had made that comment, I would have been totally offended. But with Carlo...it's different.
“Are you ready to order?”
“Did you take care of the occupational hazard?”
“All set, yes.”
His gaze lingers on my mouth. My God, he's seriously beautiful. There's something deep in his slate-colored eyes—something soulful that stirs me up even more—and as crazy as it seems, I find myself wanting to know what it is.
“Do you recommend the Sadie?”
The Sadie is a burger named after Bruce's beloved chocolate Lab—loaded with sautéed mushrooms, onions, sauerkraut and pepperjack cheese. “I hear it's very good. But I've never tried it—I don't eat meat.”
“I have to say I'm quite devastated to hear that.” Carlo's dimple deepens as he winks.
Do not react. Just don't. “I gave it up quite a while ago.”
“Really.”
“Yes. I'm much better off.” I raise my chin as heat rushes to my cheeks.
“I'll take the Sadie. But cheddar instead of pepperjack, the steamed carrots instead of fries, and an ice water with one lime and one lemon.”
I write down his order. “You're kind of particular, aren't you?”
“I'm very particular. About everything I choose in life. Including the women I find attractive.”
As I take his menu and walk away, I'm shocked to find myself pleased that I’m one of them.
chapter six ~ Carlo
Even though I already ate at Tucker's a couple of hours ago, I don't hesitate when my colleague Brockton Dall calls me to meet him for a drink at the British-style pub in downtown Lititz. Planning the fall sales meeting in San Antonio hasn't left us much time for personal discussion, and I've been wanting to talk privately with him. We've been co-workers for the past several years—my stepfather recruited Brock from Columbia Valve (competitors referred to it as “stealing”) and made him vice-president of Miller. When Scott died and I moved from president to CEO, Brock was promoted to president. He's a charismatic and cunning bastard, a summa cum laude Princeton graduate who commands attention wherever he goes with his six foot four frame, thick blond hair and green eyes. Tonight in the pub is no exception. I'm well aware of several women staring at us. It would be easy to buy a drink for a woman now, be in bed with her later tonight. But that's not how Brock, or I, operate. We both prefer a challenge, in business and in pleasure.
This pub's a favorite of mine, with its early 20th century style and good service. Brock and I order at the bar and sit at a corner table. “Tell me more about this girl,” he says, biting into his beer bread sandwich. “When you called the other night, you didn't give me many details.”
“I wanted to sit on it a while. To be sure.”
“And...?”
“I'm sure.”
“Excellent. How many contacts have there been?”
“Just the two—last week and tonight.”
Brock grins, raising his beer glass. “Got to compliment you on your timing, buddy—I found mine five days ago and didn't want to wait too much longer.”
“Cassandra was very unexpected—the stable was probably the last place I thought I'd find a woman.”
“You and I could have our pick here.” Brock looks around the packed pub. “Not that finding one is a guarantee, but bars are havens for needy women.”
“And needy men.”
“Ha! Very true. It's much more challenging to have bars off-limits. So...official start tomorrow?”
“Why not tonight?”
“I like your enthusiasm. Tonight it is, although I won't see mine until my meeting with her next week. I don't mind giving you a head start. You may need it—I'm on a roll.” Brock winks.
“What was this one again? Bank manager?”
“Financial planner. Very cool, self-assured. Wouldn't even flirt. But I caught her looking at my package when I stood up...she got pretty red in the face when we made eye contact. So there's definite potential.”
“It's your turn to decide on the prize, correct?”
“Hmmm...” Brock pauses. “What are your thoughts on boats?”
“Just got one for the house in Maine. I'm good.”
“All right...I'm still in transportation mode. How about a bike? I've had my eye on the new Erik Buell 1190 RS. I'll show you a picture.”
My jaw clenches. What the fuck? Could Dall really be that forgetful, or is he just that insensitive?
Brock picks up his phone, scrolls through his photos and hands the phone to me. “Here. Hundred seventy-five horsepower...it's got some balls. One sweet ride. Around $40K.”
I'm not responding, and this prompts Brock to look up. He figures it out. “Ah, shit—totally forgot. I'm sorry, friend. Should’ve known better.”
“Moving on.”
“Yes. Let me find something else.” Brock hastily returns to his phone. After a series of taps, he turns the screen toward me. “What do you think of this?”
I scan the picture and description. Patek Phillipe watch with a platinum case, black leather strap and a midnight blue face, just over fifty thousand. Classic, elegant. Brock can always be counted on for his good taste.
“I like it. I'm in.”
He laughs richly. “I'm not planning on you getting it, my friend...I fully intend to win. Again. Besides, we both know it's not about the prize, anyway. It's about the game.”
“Very true.”
“To the game, then.” Brock raises his beer glass. “We also need to discuss the final display—if we want to make any changes. The last one was a bit tame for my liking. I'm thinking of using more toys.”
“Always wanting more, Dall, aren't you?”
“Always.”
I check my watch: 9:25. “We'll have to discuss that later...I need to make a phone call.”
“Big plans?”
“Could be. Thanks for the beer. I'll see you Monday.”
Walking out of the pub, I feel a sudden surge of adrenaline at the thought of the new challenge—and the woman who’s part of it.
chapter seven ~ Cassandra
Fifteen minutes. That's all that stands between freedom and me. I've vacuumed the red room and put up the stools...made it through a crazy shift intact except for an oily stain on my apron from salad dressing. Now I only need to slice some pies for the next day, and I can go home. Watch a little Netflix with my besties, Jar of Nutella and Spoon. Maybe I'll invite a couple Smirnoffs to join the party. I'm actually looking forward to some alone time so I can kind of gather myself and get a handle on things.
Like what this is all about with Carlo Leone.
He stayed at Tucker's for a while after finishing his meal, and when he left, I found his tip: a $100 and a $50 bill tucked under his plate with a note on his napkin: Thank you for the stellar service and the stimulating conversation. Please thank Allison as well with the $50. ~C.
Of course, I gave Allison all of it...I wasn't about to let Carlo tell me what to do, and plus, Allison was supposed to have waited on him.
My curiosity was m
aking me crazy, so I asked him as casually as I could how he'd found my other workplace. He just shook his head and smiled, saying he'd rather keep me guessing, and that it was to a person's advantage to keep a sparring partner off-balance. I must have looked confused, or irritated, or both, because he laughed and said he hoped one day we'd be more than just sparring partners.
While Allison and I were waiting in the kitchen for our orders, I’d asked her how old she thought Carlo was.
“Mmm...mid to late twenties? Hard to tell. How do you know him, anyway?”
“I don't really know him...I met him at the stable last week. It was weird—he just showed up.”
“And he just 'shows up' here, and asks for you? Sounds like some cosmic forces at work here. At the very least, he's into you.”
I had waved off her comments. “It doesn't matter. I don't want to get involved.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously, I don't. I'm good with things the way they are.”
Allison had taken my arm then, her voice gentle. “Don't push every guy away just because you got burned. There are good ones out there.”
“Yeah, but it's more than just me getting burned a couple of times. I grew up with it. It was like a lifestyle. And I took a chance with Dylan, was totally into him—pretty sure I loved him—and he screwed me over. I'm sorry, but I don't believe in unicorns and rainbows and sugary-sweet happy endings. Plus, how can you even defend anyone with a penis after Jeff just walked out on you?”
Allison's eyes had been misty. “Because I still believe in the sugary-sweet happy ending. And I want it.”
I'm contemplating this again as I slide the last piece of chocolate cream pie into the display case. I can't deny, even to myself, that I'm attracted to Carlo—despite the dangerous vibe I get from him.
Or maybe it's because of it.
I shake off my thoughts as I turn out the lights. It's always a little eerie being the last one in the restaurant late at night, especially with the night noises—the hum of the coolers and the ancient air conditioner, the sounds of the building settling. Outside, the night is still and warm with stars scattered across the sky, the moon looking like a softly-glowing pearl. I fish around in my purse for my keys as I walk out into the dark parking lot. I'd gotten a text from Ingrid that said I didn't have to be at Windswept until noon. Sleeping in tomorrow will be a definite bonus.
There is faint music pulsing from Nocturnem, the bluesy dive bar down the street. Teal's new guy is playing there tonight, so she'll undoubtedly be in the audience. For a second, I think about heading over, but then remember I hadn't left a change of clothes in the car like I usually do. So, no Nocturnem for me tonight.
I shift the strap of my purse on my shoulder. And then, everything happens in a blurry, surreal rush.
Fingers closing on my arm, digging into my skin.
My heart, beating wildly. Oh, God—a mugging?
Or...worse.
I’m spun around to face the person who grabbed me.
It's Blond Goatee.
His mouth is twisted with anger, and he reeks of alcohol. I swallow. Jesus, this could be bad.
“Thought you'd get away with it, huh?” he mutters.
I decide to play innocent, swallowing down the fear that’s climbing up my throat. “Get away with what?”
“You know what I mean,” he scoffs, his voice ragged and breathy. “Dumping the fucking pitcher. I knew it wasn't no accident, cupcake—the whole table knew it.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about. It just slipped out of my hands. Kind of like the comment just slipped out of your mouth when you humiliated my friend.” Remembering Allison's hurt expression gives me fresh strength. “Let go of my arm.”
He is glowering. “Listen, you little bitch—” His fingers sink deeper into my skin, and I use my free hand to shove him back, panic flooding me.
The sound of a car door slamming, and then someone calling my name.
It's Carlo. My jaw drops. He's standing beside a shiny, black convertible with his hands on his hips. “What seems to be the problem?” His tone is cool, even, but the muscles along his cheekbone are tight with tension.
Deep breaths, I tell myself. It will be all right.
Blond Goatee narrows his eyes, still holding onto my arm. “There's no problem. Just having a little discussion here with my waitress.”
“She's no longer your waitress. I believe the pub is closed. I suggest you let go of her.”
“And I suggest you mind your own fucking business.” Blond Goatee is sneering.
All of a sudden, Carlo is beside us, grabbing fistfuls of Goatee's uniform and shoving him against the red pickup behind him.
Goatee's eyes widen. “Hey...hey...buddy—no need to get all up in my face. I was just having a conversation with her.”
“And now you're done. You're drunk. I suggest you head down to Crider's, get a cup of coffee and sober up before you go home.” His tone turns almost pleasant. “You should plan on staying away from her. I know people. People who wouldn't hesitate to beat the shit out of you on my behalf. Do you understand me, buddy?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure I do.” Blond Goatee is nodding and nodding as he lets go of me. I rub my arm where his fingers were, grateful beyond words that Carlo showed up when he did, because a redneck wannabe-jock mixed with alcohol is a scary concoction.
Carlo releases his hold on Goatee who quickly stumbles off. He turns to me, his eyes traveling anxiously over my face. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you.” I try to brush it off, but I’m shaking a little, my bones rubbery with relief. “Just a little excitement to end the evening.”
“You must have been scared.”
“I was pissed. And yes, a little scared.”
“I'm glad I showed up when I did. I'm guessing this was the customer you had a problem with?”
“Yes. I dumped a pitcher on him. Accidentally, of course.” I feel myself blush, hoping Carlo can't see this in the dim streetlight. “How did you happen to...I mean, were you...waiting for me?”
He stares down at me, grinning, a shadow slanting across part of his face. I can see his dimple. “I met a business colleague for a drink in Lititz and came to the conclusion I hadn't seen enough of you. So I called Tucker's and asked what time you were done your shift.”
A couple walks through the parking lot, the guy's arm across the girl's shoulders. She's leaning her head into him, and as they walked past us, they kiss. I feel something uncurl inside me.
“So.” Carlo folds his arms across his chest. His biceps are well-defined, and I fight the thought once again of how it might feel to be held by him.
“So. I guess I should head home before more trouble finds me.”
“Will you be all right?
“Yes. I am always all right.”
“You have this beautiful, delicate exterior, and yet on the inside, you can be tough as nails. It's a very intriguing combination.” He pauses. “I have a feeling you would have handled him yourself if I hadn't shown up.”
“I'm glad you did show up. I have a feeling he wouldn’t have taken it too far, but I've been wrong before.”
“Have you?
“Oh, yes. My instincts have failed me.”
“And what are your instincts telling you about me?”
To run. But I can't decide if it's to run away from you, or into your arms.
Carlo is looking at my mouth, his own lips parted slightly. I barely know him, but already he has the ability to make me feel like he's studying every hair on my head, every pore of my skin—as if he is looking not only at me, but through me.
“No comment.”
His eyes are earnest and searching. “I'm sorry to hear you've been let down before. I hope that doesn't make you leery of new relationships. And by new relationships, I'm referring to the one I'd like to start with you.”
My...God.
How am I supposed to respond to that? My mouth opens slightly, but words es
cape me. This whole night—from the moment I was surprised by Carlo sitting in the pub, to me spilling beer on Blond Goatee, to this unexpected scenario of being grabbed by one man and rescued by another—has been unsettling, to say the least. I've got to talk to Teal, although I know full well she's going to focus on Carlo being a hero. Right now, though, I just want to get back to my apartment, crawl in bed and feel safe.
“I need to go home,” I tell him. “I'm really tired.”
“All right. Even though it's been a strange night, I'm glad I got to see you.”
“Thank you. It's been...interesting. I have to say, your persistence is impressive.”
Carlo walks me to my car and waits as I get inside. “You're sure you're all right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I have other qualities besides persistence, Cassandra. When you get to know me, you'll see them.”
I watch Carlo walk toward his gleaming car.
Instead of if you get to know me, he had said when.
chapter eight ~ Carlo
I settle into my black Bugatti sofa with a martini, laptop and phone, thinking about tonight. It was only a ten minute drive home from downtown Manheim to my house in Lititz, but those ten minutes were put to excellent use, fantasizing about being with Cassandra for the first time. Even just standing in the parking lot with her under those circumstances, I found myself wanting her—wanting to crush those sweet lips with my mouth, pull her in tight and let her feel how hard she makes me—but there was also this feeling of wanting to protect her. It had taken every ounce of restraint I had not to beat the shit out of that redneck prick, but I didn't need an assault charge, and he scared off easily enough. Fuckwads like that talk a good game. Takes a big man to try to intimidate a girl.
Or I should say, woman. Cassandra is both. She gives off a fresh, innocent vibe, but there's something else in her eyes—a sort of wariness. What was it she'd said? My instincts have failed me. So she had put her trust in people, only to have them hurt or betray her. I'll have to be cautious. Baby steps.
I've yet to meet a woman without issues; in the dating world, everyone has baggage of some sort.