“You said you were a designer?” Zak asked, crouching down to study the painted horses with jockeys atop them. He couldn’t quite figure out how the game had operated.
“Industrial design,” the old man—Del—said with a touch of pride. “I was at DeVann’s for forty years. Made the working man’s tools better looking. Not something people think on much, but my redesign made them the bestselling tools in the country.”
“Wow,” Zak said, studying him with respect. “That’s all my dad ever uses. They’re really cool-looking.”
“I did that,” Del said, the pride unmistakable now.
“Will you tell me how this works?” Zak asked, and Del seemed pleased to comply while Harper fiddled with a calculator and a box bursting with tickets.
Del walked him through the entire contraption. It was as genius as Harper had claimed, and Zak kept asking follow-up questions to keep him talking while she worked. And when she finally stood and stretched her back, the tickets all separated into even stacks, Zak decided he had no more questions.
“You heading out?” he asked. May as well walk her to her car.
“Just to the next thing,” she said, stopping to drop a quick kiss on Del’s cheek. Zak could see him blush even in the shadow of the booth.
Del shooed them out and when Harper headed toward the next game booth, Zak fell into step beside her. “You put this whole thing together?”
“I did,” she said, answering a text while still scanning the grounds.
Monitoring, Zak suspected. Assessing, organizing. He knew the look, the focus in her eyes that showed no hint of exhaustion despite having already put in a longer day than his own exhausted self. He’d worn the same look when he’d climbed his way to executive chef at a Brooklyn boutique restaurant, where he’d been solely responsible for making it work. He’d loved the challenge of wrangling the chaos and channeling it into stunning food and a welcoming dining space.
Well. He’d been responsible for making it work all the way until it didn’t after a corporate restaurant group had acquired it and machined it into something soulless. But he was full of Seoul. He smiled at his own joke. It had been rough, but it’d opened his eyes to the reality that he was never going to have the capital it took to break out in the ruthless New York restaurant scene. And now he was here, beside Harper, exhausted after a long day of doing food his way. It felt really good.
“What are you smiling about?”
Ah. Yeah. She didn’t miss much. “Enjoying the end of a long work day. Is that weird?”
She shook her head. “I get it.”
“When do you get to cut out?”
“I don’t know. When everyone else is gone. You’re last man standing of the food trucks. You can go, you know.”
“I know. But I kind of want a break before I climb back into it. Mind if I hang with you for a while?”
“Sure. It won’t be interesting though.”
It already was, but he just smiled. “Feels good to stretch.”
She nodded and they walked. She stopped to thank the vendors who were still there and ask if they needed help, and if a booth was empty she double-checked to make sure nothing had been overlooked, no stray tickets or merchandise, any litter, however small, picked up.
Soon they fell into a routine where he picked up any bits of trash while she examined the rest of the booth. Once she tried to discourage him. “You don’t have to do this. Really, go get some sleep.”
But he did it anyway, because he understood. He understood being last man out of the kitchen, not even the mopping of floors beneath his notice when it was his name on the menu.
Several times he noticed her gaze stray to the Zipper, the hellbeast ride that had made him vaguely nauseous each time he saw it spin. But she kept working her way through each booth, sometimes asking him about his customers that day, sometimes working in companionable silence.
When he caught her looking at the Zipper with the same longing he reserved for a perfect filet mignon, he asked, “Do you have to stay until the rides are packed up too?”
She shook her head. “No, they’ll load them onto trucks in the morning.” And then she gave it the filet mignon look again.
“Do you . . . want to ride that thing?” he asked, finally understanding.
“No. I mean, I would have if I’d had time. But there was always something today.”
“But you’re almost done. Let me finish, and you can find the ride operator and have him fire it up for you.”
Her eyes brightened for a minute then settled back to their usual calm blue. “It’s okay. I’ve still got a dozen booths to check.”
“I’ve watched you. I know how to do it. All the vendors are gone. It’s just the cleanup. I’ll do it. I want to. Go. Ride.”
She chewed at her bottom lip.
“I’m so good at trash pickup. Go.”
“Really?”
“A thousand percent really.”
She flashed him a grin and darted toward the Zipper. He stepped into the next stall and tidied it up, shaking his head at the idea she’d want to go near that thing but pleased she would get to.
“Come with me.”
He spun to find her standing in front of the stall. “It’s fine. Enjoy yourself.”
“No, I’ll only let you keep helping me if you come do this ride with me. It’s my favorite. And you’ve earned it for outlasting all the other food trucks.”
“I’ll be honest, that feels more like a punishment than a reward.” There was no way he was getting on that death trap.
Her eyes widened. “Oh no. You’re one of those carousel guys.”
That was exactly right, but he didn’t like the hint of glee in her accusation.
“No, but I’m not really into flippy rides.”
“That’s so sweet.” She looked at him like he was a clumsy puppy. “It’ll be okay. They have to follow a strict safety code for these rides. Come with me.”
He opened his mouth to say no, but then she held out her hand. And instead, he took it and said, “Okay.”
Her pure giddiness wasn’t exactly contagious as they ran to the Zipper, but it was at least enough to distract him until the ride operator closed their cage with a clang and bolted the lock.
“I changed my mind.” He grabbed the bars of his safety harness and tugged, but they wouldn’t budge. It should have reassured him, but he felt much, much worse. “Hey, I changed my mind!” he yelled again in the direction of the safety operator.
“Ignore him!” Harper called, obviously finding the whole thing funny.
“I mean it, I really want off.” But he was too late as the motor rumbled to life and their cage began to rise.
“You’ll love it,” she yelled over the noise.
He knew with a clarity that grew more horrifying by the minute that he would not love it.
When they reached the top, and the chassis began its first rotation to spin them down, they both screamed, Harper in what sounded like pure joy. But Zak? Zak screamed because he knew he was going to die.
He did not die. It was much, much worse.
The ridiculous bell tinkled as he pushed open the door to Great Day Events. He didn’t deserve to step foot in a place with a name like that when he’d singlehandedly ruined what had been a truly excellent day for Harper. And her soft blue sweater.
Until he puked.
And puked some more.
And the spinning, flipping cage had flung the vomit everywhere while Harper screamed, “Stop the ride, stop the ride!” and it took a whole entire revolution for the ride operator to hear her over the motor and shut it down, and Zak had staggered off and collapsed to puke again. He’d been down to bile by that point.
And Harper, in her vomit-splattered sweater, had hovered over him apologizing for making him ride. It was the only thing that could have made him feel worse.
The operator had walked over and said in a bored voice, “Fourth time today.” He advised Harper to get Zak water and mak
e him sit with his head between his knees, which she had done until he’d promised nothing was spinning anymore. Then she set to work cleaning off all the cages he’d fouled during his vomitous spiral of shame because the worker had said he was off the clock. The guy at least advanced the cages for her so she wouldn’t lose the hospital’s security deposit on the attraction.
Attraction.
Ha.
He’d finally admitted to himself that attraction had overridden his self-preservation. When she’d held out her hand to him, he’d have taken it and followed her off a cliff.
It might have been better if he had. Instead, he was doing the sorriest walk of shame he’d ever made. He held an apology gift he couldn’t afford and yet didn’t come close to making things right.
Harper looked up at the sound of the bell. “Zak! How are you feeling?”
Physically, he was fine. But it was humiliating to man up to the woman who’d helped him to his truck then waited until his head was clear enough to drive.
“I’m never going to be able to look you in the face again, but I did want to bring you these.” He lifted his elbow a bit to indicate the vase of flowers nestled in its crook.
“They’re gorgeous,” she said, coming around her desk to accept them. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“It’s nothing.” It was both true and not. He’d requested permission from his landlady to cut some of the blossoms that grew beneath the window of the room he rented, then waited until a nearby thrift store had opened to pick out a vintage bottle vase. “They’re dahlias. Seemed appropriate.”
“It’s a gorgeous arrangement.” She set them on her desk and leaned down to smell them, which was good because the compliment made his cheeks flush and he didn’t need to look like an idiot. Again.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” he said. More heat surged to his cheeks.
She whirled to face him. “Oh my gosh, no. That was totally my fault! I should never have made you ride it!”
“You didn’t. My ego did. My ego is stupid, but it’s dead now. It died in a catastrophic accident last night, and I’ll never have to worry about it again. I brought you these too.” He handed her a large plastic food bin filled with several smaller tubs. “I made you enough lunches to last you a week.”
Her eyes flew to his, and he couldn’t meet them. His own gaze slid past her to a framed photograph behind her shoulder of a reception hall decked out pre-gala that looked both luxurious and elegant. It was as fine as anything he’d seen at the weddings he’d cooked for in Manhattan’s best hotels. She did good work.
“This is too much,” she said. “I want to give it back because you really shouldn’t have, but I hate making lunch.” And with that, she rounded her desk and set it on the floor beside her chair as if to make sure he couldn’t take it back.
“Anyway,” he said, fighting the urge to shift from foot to foot, “it’s a much better way to say thank you for hooking me up with the carnival yesterday than . . . well. You know.”
“I’m glad it worked out for you.”
“It definitely did,” he said, feeling on more solid ground. “A few of the women requested my card, and I’ve already booked a sixteenth birthday party next month. And something called a gamecock party?” He let it come out as a question. He’d projected confidence when that call came in an hour ago, but he had no idea what he’d agreed to.
Harper smiled. “University mascot. Sounds like someone wants you to be their tailgate truck before one of the games this fall. You’ll just park and serve, and whoever hired you will cover all the food their friends order. I think those are a pretty big deal for food trucks.”
Tailgate parties weren’t a thing in New York, but he’d run across the idea in his foodways research. They were an excellent example of how local cuisine evolved as home cooks stepped up their game to impress their friends, but he made a mental note to read up more on the subject.
“Sounds like it,” he said. He wanted to say more, but he wasn’t sure what else there was to say. He rocked on the balls of his feet a couple times. “Well, anyway. I better go.”
Harper nodded and turned back to her computer. He was halfway out the door when the little bell jangled sense into him. Take a shot, Choi. You couldn’t possibly come off looking dumber than you already do.
He walked back to the desk, and Harper smiled at him, an expression of polite interest. This time he found the guts to sit across from her. “So you’ve decoded more of Charleston for me in three meetings than I’ve been able to figure out by myself in two months. And worse, I’ve either been working or getting ready to work the whole time I’ve been here, so I still don’t really know anybody. Would you want to hang out some time?”
Her friendly smile wobbled a bit. “I’m not looking to date right now.”
He straightened. “Oh no, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant more like . . . like grab a beer or something, but I don’t even know if that’s what you guys do here in Charleston.”
“Bless your heart,” she said, grinning at him.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I know that means I’m being an idiot.”
“Close enough,” she said, still grinning. “We do, in fact, drink beer in Charleston. And hang out. But it’s not ‘you guys.’ You’re going to have to get comfortable saying ‘y’all.’ And sorry for jumping to conclusions. I wasn’t sure what hanging out means in New York.”
“You’re cool, that’s all,” he said. “I don’t have much time outside of trying to get my restaurant open, but I think I can promise I wouldn’t puke on you again if we went to shoot pool one night. Or whatever, look at rose gardens?” he quickly added when she frowned.
“Maybe not pool,” she said. “I take it kind of seriously.”
Now that was an interesting new depth. “We’re definitely going the next night you have off.”
She studied him. “Fine. Wednesday night after you finish at the ballpark. Meet me at Old Bills on Bay Street.”
“Loser buys the round,” he said, rising and heading to the door with a smirk that lasted until she said, totally unruffled, “I’ll have the Guinness.”
But by the time he hit the sidewalk he was grinning again. Damn, she was funny.
Chapter Five
It shouldn’t have surprised Harper how quickly Old Bill’s on Wednesday night became a tradition. Charleston was built on tradition, after all. She expected someday when archaeologists excavated the city, they’d dig down past the old homes and buildings to find a foundation harder than iron. “Tradition,” they’d say, studying the mysterious material. “It ran beneath the entire city.”
Four Wednesdays later, and here she was nursing her second Guinness of the night. She’d had yet to buy for Zak, although she’d wondered after he made a couple of skilled shots tonight if she might finally need to. But she’d won again, and she smiled at him now as he racked the balls.
“Stripes or solids?” she asked.
“Doesn’t matter, does it?”
It didn’t. She’d sink both on the break then beat him again.
He grumbled something under his breath. It only made her smile bigger. “Have a sip,” she said, sliding from her stool and handing it to him.
“I don’t need your pity beer.” But when she executed a perfect break, he grumbled again before downing half the drink.
She studied the table for a minute before she looked over at him. “Bad news. I’m going to run it.”
He groaned. “I don’t want to watch, but I can’t look away.”
She called every shot before circling back to the eight-ball.
“Bad angle,” he said. “I’m going to lose miserably, but at least you didn’t run it.”
She ignored him and walked around the table once more. “Trick shot, side pocket,” she finally said, pointing to the one she meant before leaning against the table and sliding her custom pool cue behind her back.
“No way.”
She only looked over her
shoulder to double check her alignment, drew back the stick, and hit the cue ball with a sharp, sudden twist. It spun toward the opposite bank, the English she’d put on it causing it to ricochet and bank again before bumping the eight ball hard enough to drop into its pocket, sweet as a kiss. The cue ball rolled to a lazy stop.
“No way!” Zak was on his feet this time, beer forgotten on the table behind him, hands in his hair as his gaze retraced the path her shot had taken.
“Yes way,” she said calmly.
“You’re amazing. Can you teach me to do that?”
She shrugged.
“I’m serious. That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not that hard.”
“Bull.”
“Okay, it’s really hard. I can show you, but it’s going to take you years of practice.”
“I’m in.”
“Come on over then.” She cleared his stripes and set up the cue and eight ball. “Study the table, and when you’ve got it fixed in your brain, lean like I did.” She pointed him to the side of the pool table.
He obeyed while she polished off her beer. “Got it,” he said, leaning back against the table like she had. “How’d you get so many years of practice?”
“Old Bill is my third stepfather. I barbacked for him through college, and I watched the best come through. I practiced whenever it got slow.” She walked up to him and reached around either side of him to position the cue stick.
“You little pool shark. Wait. I guess you never hustled me. You told me you were this good up front.”
She nodded. Her words had disappeared suddenly. She hadn’t thought through the physical logistics of teaching him this shot. They were almost chest to chest with her arms on either side of him, holding the cue. She tried to peer around him to check the shot. It only caused her to lean against him, the right front half of her body pressed against his. This should not be getting to her.
But this was getting to her.
Wedding Belles: A Novel in Four Parts Page 4