I felt the need to strike again like a cobra. “I seem to remember you guys talking about unconditional love.” I started walking toward the front door. “I guess that was bullshit, just like everything else.”
“Casey Lynn, you get back here.”
Slam.
No fucking way. Not right now.
The hot tears stung my eyes as they made waterfalls down my cheeks, but I didn’t stop right outside the door, even though my vision was blurry. Instead, I stopped when I got to my car. Opening the passenger side, I reached in, grabbing the lighter and pack of cigarettes wedged in the console. As soon as I lit one and sucked the delicious smoke into my lungs, I relaxed just a little bit.
I knew then that I was crying because mom had been half-right. But I was in no place to admit that—either to her or myself. I decided that, when I finished the cigarette, I’d start busting my ass to get all those boxes upstairs and try to find a spot for all of them. Mom had taken that room over eons ago, turning it into a space for her sewing projects, and I hated to admit that it was nice of her to let me use it again for a while.
Once my cigarette was half-smoked, I’d made another decision. I would start looking for a job first thing in the morning. The sooner I could get out from under my mother’s scrutiny, the better.
I heard the front door open and looked over to see dad making his way toward me. I wiped at my cheek just in case any evidence remained. “Looks like it might rain later.”
I glanced up and saw some dark clouds from the north headed our way. “Yeah.”
Dad leaned against the car next to me. “Can I have a drag of that before you put it out?”
“I thought you quit smoking.”
“I did…but stress makes me crave them again.” I handed him what was left of my smoke.
He was right about one thing—the stress. So, for his sake and mine, I needed to get out of there ASAP.
Chapter Two
I didn’t become brilliant overnight.
The very next day I was out pounding the pavement, but before I looked for jobs I knew I could get (like waiting tables, serving coffee, cleaning hotel rooms, cashiering at a convenience store), I pursued a dream job first.
I knew it was stupid, but I had to do it anyway. Banksy was an artist known worldwide but he was a rarity. Most artists nobody ever heard of so it was difficult to make money. At least that was what my first art prof in college had told me. His lectures to me about becoming an art teacher inspired me to…drop out. Yeah. To leave. I might have stuck it out, but Barry slapped a ring on my finger and I thought, “Fuck it. Why not?” At least in Denver I’d had more opportunities.
But I’d been too busy earning a living there. Barry’s income alone probably could have supported us—but I’m not that kind of woman.
Anyway, I knew there’d been a bit of an art boom since I’d left town—the Arts Center that had seemed to be on its last legs was now funded by the city, mom had said, and I’d seen a couple of galleries on my way through town the day before. My dreams wouldn’t just happen on their own, so I was going to check on a few things before looking for what my mom would have called a real job.
I knew that, in Winchester, even though there was the possibility that there would be art snobs running the places, overall I had a better chance here of being a big fish in a little pond. Denver was the largest pond in the state with millions of little fishes. And, while I’d been angry that I’d had to return here, the truth of the matter was Winchester was a little pond. Yes, it wasn’t the smallest of small towns, but it wasn’t a metropolis, either. I had a shot here.
So I parked on Main Street, happy first that it was easy to find a spot—and I didn’t have to feed a meter or wedge my car in a tight space. There was a sign warning me that I had two hours there before getting a ticket, but I could deal with that. My business shouldn’t take that long.
I examined the two-story red brick building hulking on the corner of the lot, attached in Main Street fashion to the next business, and I tried in vain to remember what had been here when I’d left Winchester years ago. Since I was a kid, businesses had come and gone in many of these buildings, all while other companies and shops stretched the town in all four directions as it grew. As a new shopping area appeared to the east, Main Street had lost much of its foothold and businesses came and went. There were lots of places there that would never die—restaurants, bars, and a few beauty shops—but some of the buildings should have had revolving doors installed.
This place was one of them.
If memory served, this place had housed a team of lawyers when I’d been a kid—and they’d moved their offices to a shiny new building just off of Main Street. Then, all through high school, it had been a day spa. I looked up at the creative sign hanging off the brick high up. As near as I could tell, the letters of the words Sens Gallery were made of wrought iron painted white.
My first thought? They were trying too damn hard.
But what did I know? I’d never sold a painting, never had anyone ask to see my shit. I needed to lose my attitude before walking in or I’d never stand a chance.
As I entered, I noticed first the lighting. It felt dark in the entryway, but, aside from the front desk, there were paintings hanging on the wall, and each had its own light source—so I knew the lighting was intentional.
But it felt so small.
Reminding myself that this was merely the entryway, I approached the desk. There stood a thin, tall woman with tight features—possibly made that way by the severe bun her hair was coiled into—and her smile seemed just as strained.
Nothing like the present.
“Hi. I’m Casey…Williams.” Great start, Casey. I’d been Williams for twenty years. Why was I having a hard time readjusting to my maiden name? Dumb. “Anyway, I’m originally from Winchester but I just moved back. I’m an artist, and I work mostly in acrylics and oils but sometimes watercolors or other media when the spirit moves me.”
“Okay.” That thin tight smile wasn’t going to let her lips say more than she had to. It dawned on me that she probably had people in here begging all the time. So I needed to let her know my intentions. Well, my cover story, anyway.
“But that’s not why I’m here. I was wondering if you’re looking for any help. Um, if you’re hiring anybody.”
The gal was classy. Smart-ass me would have waved my hand around like a car model showing off the latest luxury vehicle on the lot to emphasize the lack of patrons in the place. But, of course, it was barely ten o’clock and the place had just opened. “Thanks for asking, but I’m not looking for help at this time. Would you like an application?” Before I could even answer, she reached under the counter and produced an old-fashioned four-page paper form.
What had I expected? But it was an in, a way to check up on occasion. “Yes, that would be great. I’ll bring it back soon.”
I went out to my car and filled it out, returning with it less than twenty minutes later.
“That was fast,” she said with a smile that felt a little warmer than the one earlier.
Oh, and there was a man in there looking at a sculpture near the back, so they had some business.
Smiling back, I handed her the paperwork. “I was serious.”
She glanced over the first page and then said my name as if to make sure she had it right. Then she looked up at me, handing me a business card. “You can bring your portfolio in anytime and I’ll take a look at it.”
I thanked Isabel, owner and operator of Sens Gallery, and told her I’d take her up on the offer, but no way in hell was I going to admit that my present portfolio was a box of paintings and sketches I’d never bothered putting in frames. I’d have to remedy that.
Then I drove to the Arts Center. Hmm. Closed on Tuesday. Lovely.
That left me to the task I didn’t want to do. But I needed a fucking job. So I parked again and walked Main Street, entering most of the businesses where I’d have a chance getting a job with, and wh
enever they had a paper application, I filled it out and brought it right back. I noted the ones that had online applications, planning to tackle those in the evening.
And I tried not to smoke too much. I didn’t want to smell like an ashtray when I walked in. I needed to break that fucking habit.
But I needed a damn job first.
I saved the restaurants for after two o’clock when things looked to be slower. Most of them told me they weren’t hiring, so come back another time. A few of them told me to apply online. Eventually, I ventured away from Main Street and out into the newer parts of town.
There was this place called Bob’s Southern BBQ. I almost didn’t even enter, because I wasn’t a huge meat eater, and I had the idea that this was a meat-centric kind of place. Beggars can’t be choosers, Casey. Get your ass in there.
From the outside, it looked like any steakhouse. Inside, it was rustic, for lack of a better word. They had a theme and they’d run with it. Cowboys. Yup. Leather all over the damn place. As in rawhide. Wooden wagon wheels and bull skulls with attached horns displayed as art, a far cry from Sens Gallery.
I almost turned around and ran out.
But there was a counter to the right before the gaping maw of a dining room just beyond, and at that counter stood a man looking frazzled. “Table for one?” he asked.
I slapped on the most charming smile I could manage. My feet were beginning to ache in the low heels I’d been wearing, and I just wanted to take a load off. “Actually, I wondered if you were hiring.”
The man’s brown eyes lit up behind black-rimmed glasses. “We are. You’re looking for work?”
“Yes.”
“How much time do you have?”
God, I had all day. “An hour at least.”
“Excellent. Wendy!” he yelled, nearly making me jump out of my skin. Maybe all the hair that should have been on his head had jumped off in fear.
Would I want to work for a guy like this?
A woman with long reddish-blonde hair and a cleft in her chin peeked out from a room to the left. “What?” Her tone and volume matched this man’s intensity.
What the hell had I started?
“I need you to play hostess.”
“I’m trying to get the conference room clean, Ed. Can’t you get somebody else?”
“Does it look like I can?”
The woman sighed and walked over toward us—and that was when she seemed to notice me for the first time. She smiled sweetly at me and then looked at the man named Ed and shook her head as if to tell him to get the hell out of there already—she had this.
And I still didn’t quite know what was going on.
“I had a cook quit today and another one just didn’t show. Plus my hostess is out sick—so we’re a little stressed today.”
Ya think?
“So are we hiring? Yes, we are. Let’s see what you’re looking for. Maybe we need each other, eh?”
He didn’t even hand me an application. My cramped hand appreciated that.
We walked into a tight room that didn’t even deserve to be called an office, but they’d managed to cram a table, three chairs, and a four-drawer filing cabinet in there. I imagined there was a corkboard on the wall, but it was covered with so many papers, I couldn’t tell for sure. Ed waved his hand for me to sit in one of the empty chairs just inside the door and he walked over to the other side. He gathered up stacks of papers and placed them in front of the computer monitor to the right before picking up a notepad and pen and sitting down.
“Why don’t you tell me about your last job and what makes you think you’re qualified to work here.” So much for being desperate. “Actually, I guess I need your name first.”
I tried to lay the charm on thick, smiling and being as warm as possible, but that didn’t always come easily. “Casey Williams.”
He scribbled it on his pad and said, “I’m the manager, but I don’t know how much longer if I can’t keep people—and if all my help is insubordinate.” I struggled to keep a neutral look on my face. Did I want to work here? But then he cracked a smile. “Kidding. You’ll need to get used to my sense of humor. Do you mind if I call you Casey?”
“Not at all.”
“What restaurant skills do you bring to the table, Casey?”
“Lots. Dishwashing, taking orders, making food and coffee. I haven’t waited tables a lot—mostly counter service.” Shit. I was ruining my chances. “I hope you won’t hold that against me.”
He smiled as if to put me at ease, but that didn’t help. “So tell me a little about your work history.”
Shit. This was tough, especially since I didn’t have an application to have him look at. I decided to just lay it all out there. “Honestly, it’s all over the place. In college, I cleaned motel rooms on weekends and I was a barista for Culebra Coffee in downtown Denver before I came here. I can count cash and I’m good with customers.” So that was a lie. I was okay with customers—so long as they didn’t piss me off. I had a hard time holding my tongue when people were dicks.
The way his dark eyes scrutinized mine made me think he could see right through me. He opened his mouth to say something when someone stepped in that tiny room. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but lust? Hell, yeah, and when I saw this guy, I realized maybe I was ready to jump back on that horse.
Maybe I was ready for a rebound guy.
This man—dare I say, this Adonis—kicked my heartbeat up several notches with his mere presence. I’d never thought I had a type but, if I did, this guy was it. In the looks department, he ticked off several boxes and his attitude, the air of confidence coming off him in waves, ticked off a few more. He had short brown hair and his face was clean shaven, but he had sideburns that pushed the limit. On some guys, that facial hair might have looked funny but on this man? Sexy as hell. He had forest green eyes that held secrets—I could tell that just from the way they cursorily passed over me before hitting his target. And, while he talked to Ed, I continued my assessment. Muscular arms and, if I wasn’t mistaken, he was pretty cut underneath the shirt. Fairly tall. Strong jaw. Tattoos on his upper arms, but I couldn’t see what the designs were—they only peeked out from underneath the short t-shirt sleeves.
Yum.
This was the first time I’d felt like a woman—a desirous one, at that—since my divorce.
“Can you see I’m a little busy here, Scott?”
“That’s pretty obvious—but the vents quit working again.”
Ed sighed. “I’m sorry, Casey. Can you give me a minute?”
“Of course.” I wasn’t going to say it, but I knew the vents quitting in a place like this could be trouble. The good-looking guy named Scott wasn’t budging, so while Ed picked up the phone and dialed, I snuck a sideways glance. When I sensed he was doing the same thing, I looked up, plastering a flirty smile on my face. He didn’t smile back, but he seemed to examine me with a simple glance. Then he nodded at Ed and left.
What the hell was that vibration in my core? If I didn’t get this damn job, I was going to have to come back for lunch sometime. And I knew his first name, so I had a bit of an advantage.
“Thanks, Dennis. See you in a bit.” After Ed hung up, he said, “Can you start tomorrow morning?”
What? He’d barely asked me any questions—and I’d fucked up my answers. “Are you kidding?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Yeah, this wasn’t a dream job, but I needed something—anything—and the shocked look in my eyes told him I was still dubious. “Look, Casey, I don’t know if you can tell we’re a little strapped for help right now. People just don’t want to work anymore and, frankly, interviewing hasn’t stopped me from hiring some of the crappiest workers on the planet. If you can’t handle the job or don’t want it, I’ll know in just a few days—and I have no problems firing people. So do you want the job or not?”
“Yes. Yes, I want the job.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight AM sharp. Blue
jeans, a plain white t-shirt, nonskid closed toe shoes.”
“I’ll be waiting tables?”
“You’ll be in the kitchen. Think you can you handle the heat?”
Oh…we were about to find out.
Chapter Three
Bob’s Southern BBQ.
I don’t remember any childhood dreams for my future including a place with BBQ in the title, but as I struggled to think of what I wanted for adult self, there actually wasn’t much. My mom’s unspoken wish for both Kara and me was that we get married and have children, just like she had. And I didn’t know much about mom’s past, only that she’d been a nurse when she and dad had met, and it turned out she hadn’t liked it much—so when her accountant boyfriend popped the question, she decided to be the best damned domestic engineer money could buy. And she was good at it.
Me, though? I only knew I didn’t want to do the whole stay-at-home mom thing. As a teen, it had been simple rebellion. Over the past several years, though, I’d really just wanted to find myself. And, as I donned my jeans and t-shirt, preparing for my first day at Bob’s, I reminded myself that this job was merely a stepping stone. I’d figure out a way to make art my sole focus, but for now, I needed cash. A paying job meant independence.
When I walked through the glass doors at Bob’s, Ed was sitting in the office, but he spotted me before I could wonder what I needed to do next. He spent a good twenty minutes showing me where everything was—the employee break areas—one inside and one out, the old-fashioned timeclock, right next to the old-fashioned corkboard where work schedules were hung, and the entire back area of the restaurant, from the dishwasher to the food prep area.
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