“Uh, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” I say quickly. I can hardly tell Joe why I find the very notion of Greg “shadowing” here incredibly awkward. Somehow I doubt my dad wants to hear about his daughter having one-night stands with soon-to-be-famous actors. Oh god, this is going to be terrible. “Great!” I hear myself add.
Yeah, just fantastic. I head off to place Blaine’s egg-white order, and start to frantically think of avoidance strategies. It’s bad enough I can hardly sleep at night without thinking about Greg. I don’t need my waking, working moments filled with him too.
But a tiny part of me, the part usually shouted down by the cautious voice of reason in my head…? That tiny, hopeful part of me is jumping for joy.
Chapter Fifteen
I pull a face at the little kid outside the ice-cream shop as I slurp loudly at the bottom of my milkshake, and he giggles. It feels even hotter in Bakersville than it did an hour ago in Dogwood, but the farmer’s market is the best in the area. Since I’m getting used to driving the van now anyway, and we had a lunchtime rush keeping most of the rest of the staff busy, Joe wasn’t too suspicious about my volunteering to go and pick up some supplies. But in reality, of course, it’s because it’s day one of Project Humiliation, with Greg helping out at the restaurant to get a feel for us little people and our quaint small-town eateries, all the better to convey it to a teen TV audience. I couldn’t wait to find an excuse to get out of there.
I suck on my straw again, but come up with nothing, so drop it into the trash and push my sunglasses up on my nose as I walk slowly and reluctantly back to the van. At least I managed to pick up some organic baby eggplants and home-made salted ricotta—I’m planning to collude with Bob and sneak a new dish onto the menu. Joe may not like it, but I’m pretty sure we can win his taste buds over.
I wind down the windows before I load the bags of groceries from the market into the back, because the air-con doesn’t do shit and a half-hour in the sun has made the van more like an oven. I get in the driver’s seat and pull out a compact from my bag, trying to take some of the shine off my forehead, and shaking my head in dismay at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. Stop caring, damn it.
It’s not like Greg even gave me more than a nod hello when he arrived at the restaurant this morning, and Joe said he wouldn’t be doing a whole shift. He should be fairly easy to avoid. But just in case… I want to at least feel confident that I don’t look like a sweaty, shiny mess when I get back. I spent twenty minutes more than usual getting ready this morning too, with this same nervous-yet-irritated churning in the pit of my stomach.
I start the engine and hope that by the time I get back to the restaurant, Greg’s “acting prep” will be done for the day. It’s actually a pretty nice drive back, and I crank up the radio and sing along loudly to old Motown hits as I zip along the open road back toward Dogwood. Well, as much as this old heap can zip along. By the time I pull into the parking lot of Joe Johnson’s, the sun is taking on the amber hue of late afternoon, and my hair has been well and truly buffeted by the wind. I’m distracted, still singing with the windows down as I park, until I look up and see Greg leaning against the wall out back, just by the door. He’s obviously taking a break, and he glugs from a glass bottle of Coke, his eyes closed and the sun on his face, an apron tied around his waist. I stare, because, well… He looks like something out of a TV ad. No wonder they plucked him out of that play. I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his muscular throat, and his lips parting as he pulls the bottle away, a slight smile on his lips, his eyes still closed. His dark hair and stubble glow a warmer brown in the sunlight, and then his eyes open and he lowers his gaze and… Catches me staring. Of course. He grins widely, but then his face begins to fall, like he remembers he’s not meant to do that around me.
I look away and quickly jump out of the van, slide open the door, and start to haul the bags of fruit and vegetables out of the back. But then, suddenly, I see a pair of strong, tanned arms reaching in next to me to grab another sack.
“Let me help you,” Greg says, glancing at me as if to check it’s OK.
“Uh, thanks,” I say. We carry the bags in through the open back door and set them down in the kitchen. Bobby looks over at the two of us and I see a little smile playing on his lips that I deliberately ignore. Instead, I head back out to get the last of the sacks, and hear Greg follow me. I turn to say something, just because I feel like I should, and notice him staring at my hair. My hand reaches up and I remember how windy it was in the van. My hair’s all over the place and I rake my fingers through it while he watches me.
“Had the windows down,” I volunteer, squirming under his gaze and wishing I didn’t sound so weird.
“No, it looks … good,” he says, then looks at the ground. “I think I’ve seen it look a little like that before.” He says it quietly, but there’s no mistaking what he means when he looks up again and I see his blue eyes twinkle. I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I think that’s a topic best avoided,” I say, my voice sounding too husky. I clear my throat. I wanted to say something more scolding, but I’m too busy trying to calm down the need his words spark inside me. We both reach into the van and grab the last two sacks without saying anything else.
Fifteen minutes later I’m filling up jugs at the drinks station when Joe reminds Greg he can finish up for the day. I glance up at the clock—I’m only halfway through my shift, even though he started at the same time as me.
“Yeah, really getting that authentic experience,” I mutter to myself, and then blush as I realize Greg’s walking past me. He chuckles a little, overhearing me, and I blush even more. He comes to a stop beside me, undoing his apron.
“I know. It’s dumb,” he says, pushing his hand through his hair. “I thought it was ridiculous when they suggested it—I mean, I worked at the bakery all through high school. But then when they said this little method-acting exercise was going to be here at JJ’s, I thought… Well, it started to sound a lot less dumb, I guess.” He looks at me for a beat longer, twirling the string of his apron around his fingers. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Cathy.”
He walks through to the back and I nearly spill the water jug I was filling as I stare after him. Why does he keep doing that—making this weird, intense thing crackle between us? I jump as I hear the phone ring, and then snap out of it and go to check on the orders for my tables, trying to push him out of my mind. Anyway, Greg’s wrong—I won’t see him tomorrow, because I deliberately took the day off. I still have a lot of vacation time to take, and I figure as many days as I can find a reason to avoid him, the better. Then Torture Week will be over and I can relax again, and he can go off and be this big actor, and we can all get on with our lives.
But when I walk past the office, I see my dad checking over the schedules and frowning.
“What’s up, Joe?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
“That was Helen on the phone. She’s got the flu, so she’s going to be out for a couple of days.” He sighs, his big bushy eyebrows rising up. “I know you had the day off tomorrow, but—”
“Of course,” I say quickly, holding up a hand. I hate the stressed-out look on his face, and I feel a stab of guilt at even thinking I should take a random day off just to avoid stupid mistakes and … crackling intensity. “Don’t even worry about it. I didn’t have any plans anyway.”
Joe smiles at me, and I wink and head back onto the floor. As I set up another table, I frown to myself. I noticed something else on my dad’s desk—usually he doesn’t leave paperwork lying around because he doesn’t want me or anyone else snooping, but I’m pretty sure the bill I saw had the unmistakable red stamp of “past due” on it.
I sigh and look around the restaurant. It is kind of quiet, even for a Monday night. Getting that money from the Bittersweet producers definitely won’t hurt. I think again about Greg agreeing to do the shadowing, even though working in a diner is obviously not that different from working at his dad’s bak
ery. He said himself it was ridiculous, and I’m sure he could have easily refused. Even if he’s kind of, maybe, sort of, coming here because of me, he’s also doing us a real favor. And the fact that he recommended us for the catering too…? I get the feeling he really understands that small businesses like ours need all the extra dollars they can get.
Ugh! I shake my head vigorously. So what? I can’t let a couple of nice things cloud the fact that I hardly even know the guy—and that so far Greg has mainly demonstrated that he’s an asshole. Kinda. Maybe. Sort of.
*
If it seemed quiet on Monday, by mid-week word seems to have gotten around that JJ’s has a ridiculously handsome new employee, because today it seems like every female in Dogwood under the age of thirty—and a lot who are over—has decided that it’s the place to eat. I watch Greg back away from bussing a table, smiling nervously at the group of tween girls who are grinning at him through their braces.
“The kid’s kind of popular, huh?” Bobby says as I hand in an order. “Girls are looking at him the way they used to look at me back in the day,” he adds with a grin, and I roll my eyes.
“Sure, Bob,” I say, chuckling.
“Well, he sure has an eye for you,” Bobby teases, watching for my reaction. I purse my lips, but try not to make him think it’s too big a deal that he’s noticed. I do feel Greg’s eyes on me sometimes. It’s not even like I see it; I really do … feel him.
A couple of hours later and I sigh with relief as Greg finishes up his “shift” for the evening while I’m out front on break, chatting with Maxi as she has her one cigarette. She narrows her eyes as we watch him shove his hands into his pockets and stride away down the road, not seeing us.
“I don’t know how you do it, being around him and all these knives. I’d have cut his dick off by now, and said it was an accident,” Maxine says, exhaling her smoke in his direction like it was a weapon.
“Jeez, Maxi. It’s cool, we’ve moved on.” I’ve been struggling to tap into the reserves of anger I hoped would carry me through the week without feeling this growing sense of longing…
“Well, he definitely has,” Max says, pointing with her cigarette between her fingers. I can still see Greg, further up the road now, standing outside Mulligan’s. A tall, slender brunette sashays up to him, her hair bouncing infuriatingly. But as they face each other, I see Bethany push her sunglasses off her face and fold her arms. Greg shrugs and then says something to her. She shakes her head exasperatedly, and he looks away.
“Huh.” Maxine is clearly thinking the same thing I’m thinking. Greg and Bethany pretty much look like they’re having an argument. I take a couple of deep breaths to calm the pathetic excitement in my chest. Bethany takes a step toward Greg and seems to be trying to change his mind about something, touching his bicep, but he shoves his hands back in his pockets, says something more, and then turns and leaves. Bethany doesn’t go after him. I see Bethany pull her cell from her bag and push her sunglasses back down onto her face as she strides away quickly.
Max looks over at me, and I must have an expression on my face that’s a little hopeful—or at least gloating—because she shakes her head vigorously as she puts out her cigarette.
“Uh uh. Don’t even think it, missy,” she says to me sternly.
“What?” I say innocently, and then tell her my break’s over as she purses her lips at me with a knowing, but slightly worried, smile.
Maybe I’m worried too. This could get dangerous…
Chapter Sixteen
“Seemed a little less busy tonight,” I hear Greg say, and I glance over at him and Bobby as Greg rinses off the last of the dishes to load in the washer. I’m not sure if they’ve noticed me on the other side of the pass. Bob wipes his hands down his apron and shrugs.
“Yeah, it’s Rita Castellano’s sweet sixteen tonight, so I think all your teenage fan club members are over at the mayor’s mansion, along with half the town,” he says, grinning. Greg shuffles a little uncomfortably, but he returns Bobby’s smile. God, his face really does burst into light when he—
“Night, Cathy,” Bob calls, and I turn crimson—great, they’ve caught me eavesdropping. “You’re good to lock up?” he says with a grin.
“Um, yeah, of course,” I say, ringing out the cash register loudly to cover the slight quaver in my voice. “I’ll see you Sunday.”
“Big plans tomorrow for your night off?” he asks as he heads out the door. I shake my head. “Hey, New York, now you’re all done with your acting practice here, you should take the lady out for a drink,” Bob calls over his shoulder with a wink.
“Goodnight, Robert,” I say sternly, and I hear his laugh as he heads out into the darkness. The other wait staff have already gone too, and Joe’s a guest of the mayor tonight, so it’s just me and Greg left at the restaurant. Alone. In the low, romantic light. With the sound of the crickets chirping outside, and the feel of his eyes on me…
“You really didn’t have to stay for the whole shift tonight,” I say, my voice sounding too high and loud in the quiet of the restaurant. He comes around from the kitchen and pulls his cell out of his back pocket so he can sit up at the counter as I cash out the register. He’s right; it was quiet tonight, judging by a quick look at the takings. I sigh a little.
“I wanted to, seeing as it’s my last night. I’ve really appreciated everybody being so nice,” he says. His voice is deep and warm, like I could melt into it. I swallow, trying not to think again about the fact that we’re on our own.
“Well, Joe told me he didn’t expect some Hollywood kid to turn up and work quite so hard,” I tell him, smiling wryly. Greg chuckles and looks embarrassed once more. It’s a pretty sexy look on him.
“Guess it’s because I’m a Brooklyn kid not a Hollywood kid,” he replies.
“Yeah, I guess so. Well, you sure had me fooled, at least.”
Tension descends between us, and I almost regret the jibe. Almost—until his cell starts to vibrate on the countertop and I see “B” flash up on the screen again. I can’t help suspecting that B is for Bethany, and then I can’t help clenching my teeth in irritation. He shuts it off quickly.
“Never seem all that keen to answer her calls, huh?” I say snidely, testing, and his eyes snap up to mine.
“What?” he says, his voice tight and his eyes wide.
“You know what, it’s none of my business anyway,” I say, holding up my hands and resuming my count quickly. I should get out of here.
“No, I’m sorry I… I’m just tired.” He exhales and rolls his shoulders, and I try not to stare as his muscles flex. “I forgot how exhausting this kind of work can be,” he says. “My dad would be horrified at me being tired after a week’s honest work though. Being here actually reminded me a lot of my family, being back home. It felt good.”
I smile, still looking down at what I’m doing, but the intimate look in his eyes when I glance up from the bills and see him staring at me makes me lose my count, and I have to start again.
Greg blows out some air and stands up. He moves around the room, turning over some of the chairs that hadn’t been put up onto the tables so that the floor can get mopped in the morning. I can’t help feeling like he’s hanging around deliberately, but I can’t say I mind having company—especially his. It can be a little creepy here after closing.
“So… This week wasn’t a complete waste of time then?” I ask, cutting into the quiet, and he looks over at me.
“I’d never consider time spent with you wasted, Cathy.”
His voice is as quiet and intense as his vivid-blue gaze when he speaks, and I have to force myself to close my jaw before I close the cash register.
“That’s… That’s sweet of you to say.” My voice quavers a little, and I take a breath. “But I thought we kind of agreed—”
“Yeah, I know.” He looks down and sighs. “I know.” He repeats it like he’s trying to remind himself. His smile is tired and beautiful and seductive and tentative�
� I notice my hands are trembling as I hold the cash box, ready to take it through to the back. When I don’t say anything, he takes a step closer, leaning over toward me from the other side of the counter.
“Listen, Cathy, what I said was true. I think it’s better if we’re just friends. But one thing’s been bothering me.”
I swallow, unsure what that thing might be. “Oh,” is all I can think of to say.
His eyes roam the room awkwardly before they meet mine again. “I never got a chance to apologize to you for leaving like that. It was… I don’t want you to think that I don’t respect you, or that what happened was … meaningless. It meant a lot—to me, I mean. Things are just—”
“Complicated,” I whisper, finishing his sentence again, and he nods, blowing out a breath. “I get it,” I say quietly, fighting between irritation and desperate need. I can hear my pulse in my ears, like a drum resonating under water, but I manage to look him in the eye, because I want him to know I mean this. “Thank you.”
He sighs, and then stifles a yawn, and I smile.
“I guess in the baking trade it’s more of a sunrise thing than a midnight thing,” I say, and he laughs. It bounces off the walls and back to me deliciously.
“Yeah. I think I’ve been spoiled, with the acting. Even with the play I was doing before I came here, matinees were at two. I got used to sleeping in,” he replies. I suddenly think about lying in the hotel bed, face to face with him in the lamplight…
“So, um, other than being able to sleep late, what made you ditch the family trade for acting?” I ask, hoping to distract my mind from where it was headed.
Greg’s mouth twists into something between a grimace and a smile. He seems to think for a moment before he speaks. “I was sort of an emotional kid. As my fifth-grade teacher used to say, I was ‘given to extremes,’” he says, laughing a little. “If I was happy, I was super happy, if I was sad I got super low. And if I was angry…” He trails off, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment before he continues. “But the first time I stepped out on a stage, it was like—this is what I need, this is where I can use it all. It was like a lightbulb went on.”
Bittersweet Page 10