Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  “You’re... You’re...”

  I nod, flashing her what one blogger referred to as my “panty-dropping smile.” “Everett,” I supply, crouching to her side. “This is quite the coincidence, huh? I thought I’d never see you again.”

  Her eyes narrow and the corners of her lips downturn as she scrambles backward, crab-style, on her hands and feet. “I think you made it clear last night you never wanted to see me again.”

  “Whoa, hey, now.” I study her face and it’s definitely disappointment and hurt I see there. Damn. I’m no good at this kind of thing. Emotions are messy and I avoid them whenever possible. But what am I supposed to do? Just walk away and hole up in the house for the rest of the vacation? Or worse, ask that someone else do the grounds keeping while I’m here? I crouch so we’re at eye level with each other. “Refresh my memory, but aren’t you all hot and bothered over that lead singer from last night?”

  She shifts and imitates my posture for a moment before standing, turning her face. “You approached me. I didn’t ask you to dance with me. Or...you know...”

  “Maybe you had more to drink that I did, but I distinctly remember you initiating the ‘you know.’” I tug at my earlobe and she flushes. So she does remember. “What, you’re pissed because I didn’t ask for your number? You were trying to hook up with another guy.”

  She presses her lips together but doesn’t correct me. She shakes her head, moving to the weed trimmer. “I should get back to work. Sorry for disturbing you. I’ll be quieter in the future—and I’ll have Leo warn you before I mow the grass.” Not looking at me, she grabs the tool and does what looks like a little curtsy before turning toward the garage at the other end of the property.

  I snort—I can’t help it—and she whips around, glaring.

  “You think this is funny?”

  I cover my mouth with my hand to hide a smile, but the look on her face says I’m unsuccessful. “Did you just curtsy?”

  Her cheeks are distinctly red, but she doesn’t look away. “Part of my job is to respect the people renting the house.”

  “Sure—but a curtsy? What am I, the queen of England?”

  “No. King of the douche bags, maybe.”

  The smile slides off my face. I don’t typically mind when people call me a d-bag—but that’s mostly because I’ve usually done something to deserve the title. But I don’t get what she’s so pissed about. “What’s your problem? I tried to help you last night, and suddenly I’m a douche?”

  She squares her shoulders. “You know what you did.”

  I throw up my hands. “Clearly I don’t.”

  Her mouth twitches. “You embarrassed me, okay? I put myself out there and you completely shot me down. You didn’t even let me down easy—you just...you just walked out.”

  I take a second to process her words. Is she remembering the same night I am? “Wait—are you pissed because I didn’t get your number?” Her gaze flickers down for a moment and I know I’m on to something. “Okay, so I didn’t want your number. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Sorry if that bruises your ego. I mean, yeah, you’re pretty and I liked kissing you—that was an added bonus to the night. But I’m not here to hook up.”

  “I just don’t see how you can make out with somebody and just walk away.”

  I shrug. “That’s what you were supposed to do. I help you make what’s-his-name jealous, he gets your number, and the two of you ride off into the sunset or whatever lame shit people do.”

  Her lips twist and her jaw works, like too many things are piling up for her to say and she can’t decide which thing to say first. She takes in a breath and releases it slowly, the tension draining from her shoulders and her face. “You know what? You’re right. You were just trying to help me out. So, thanks. And don’t worry, I’ll be more discrete from now on. You won’t even notice I’m here. Go back to whatever you were doing. I’ll pull weeds by hand so I don’t bother you anymore.”

  She spins on her heel and heads toward the garage, leaving me alone with guilt pangs filling my chest. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll just go in the house till you’re done.”

  “It’s no problem,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ve been given strict instructions not to bother the house’s tenant. Actually, I’m not even supposed to be talking to you—it says so in the—”

  Her sentence falls, unfinished, as she slowly spins to face me. She’s working something out, and I only figure out what a split second before she does. She tilts her head to the side and squints, then her jaw drops as a look of recognition washes over her features.

  “Everett.” She mouths my name. “Everett... Anders. You’re Ever Anders.”

  I rub my hand over my face. Shit.

  Her eyes dart frantically and her chest rises and falls as she takes in one short, sharp breath after another. “Holy cow. I made out with Ever Anders last night.”

  Rather than looking thrilled at this revelation, she looks slightly green, like she may throw up.

  “You can’t tell me you’re not a fan. I caught you singing along last night.” I force a smile as I say it, hoping to distract her from what appears to be an impending panic attack. At the very least, she doesn’t look ready to start texting all her friends and peppering social media with the news, so that’s a plus, I suppose. But I can’t be comforted by that because I’m honestly afraid she’s going to vomit on the grass between us.

  She finally manages a deep breath and shakes her head. “I don’t know if this makes last night easier or harder to deal with.” She covers her eyes with her hand. “Don’t worry—I know what it says in the non-disclosure agreement. I won’t tell anyone who you are. And you don’t have to worry about me bothering you anymore. Now that I know you’re here, you won’t notice I am.” She turns back toward the garage before uncovering her eyes.

  “Ashlyn.”

  She freezes like a rabbit sensing movement. After a beat, she turns, lips pressed together in a tight line. “It didn’t even work,” she murmurs.

  I tilt my head to the side, my mind spinning as it tries to work out what she’s talking about. Her attempt to be professional didn’t work? Her attempt to leave me in peace? Is she afraid I’m going to call her boss and get her fired or something? “What didn’t work?”

  She blinks twice and rubs her nose with the back of her gloved hand. “Graham.”

  Before I have a chance to say anything else, she’s heading for the garage again. Part of me wants to go after her, but what the hell would I even say?

  Chapter Four

  Ashlyn

  “I made a complete ass out of myself.”

  Reagan sits across the bar, surveying me over her half-empty pint glass. “You mean more than usual?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s it. No more beer for you.” I snatch at her glass, but she pulls it to her protectively.

  “You can’t do that. I’m a paying customer.” She flashes me a grin, waggling her eyebrows.

  It’s just after five and besides the regulars, the Shores Brewpub is pretty empty. Things should pick up soon—we’re typically pretty busy Sunday nights—but for now I’m glad for the sparse population. I pull a damp rag out of the plastic bucket of cleaning solution and wipe down the bar, even though it’s not dirty. I love this bar: The top is covered in rows and rows of pennies, coated with a clear polymer. It’s so much more unique than just a wooden bar. There’s one regular—Buck—who tells me it’s his goal to count all the pennies. He keeps getting derailed about a third of the way down, though, because by that time he’s a few drinks in and keeps counting the same row over and over.

  I return to where Reagan sits and toss the rag back into the bucket. “Aren’t you supposed to be supportive in my time of need?”

  She shrugs. “I never went to best friend school. I just wing it.”

  I glare and she relents.

  “Okay, okay, fine. It’s good you stood up for yourself, even though you didn’t really execu
te it well.”

  I throw a napkin at her. “Nice.”

  The front door opens and my eyes flick up. Walking in is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in real life—flawless skin, black hair that curls gently around her shoulders, full lips, and curves in all the right places. In high school, she was just the kind of girl who would make me remember all my inadequacies; in adulthood, she’s one of my good friends—Teresa Flores, fellow bartender at the brewpub.

  Teresa’s warm brown eyes light up and she smiles broadly when she sees me. She marches straight behind the bar to give me a hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it out to the show last night. How’d it go?”

  “Ash made out with a guy,” Reagan blurts before I can stop her.

  I throw another napkin.

  “What? It’s true,” Reagan says, unapologetic.

  Teresa’s eyes are wide and she grips my shoulders so tight her professionally manicured nails dig into my flesh. “You actually did it? You made out with Graham?”

  I bite my lower lip. “Not... Not exactly.”

  “Complete stranger,” Reagan supplies.

  Teresa squeals, jumping up and down without releasing my shoulders. “That’s so exciting!”

  I flush. I’m not used to filing a random make-out session with a stranger as “exciting,” but Teresa definitely knows the ways of the dating world better than I, so I go with it.

  “That’s not even the best part,” Reagan continues. She’s enjoying this—being the bearer of the news. Also, she knows me well enough to wager I wouldn’t share the details with Teresa myself if left to my own devices. Reagan is one thing—I’ve known her for so long. She already knows all my embarrassing stories, so what’s one more? But Teresa and I have only been friends since I started working here. She’s taken me under her wing, but we’re not to besties level yet.

  “After they make out, right, he leaves without so much as asking for her number. Then guess who she runs into at the gas station the next morning?”

  My ears burn when I hear the lie repeated. I couldn’t exactly tell her where I really ran into Everett—that would be breaking the NDA I signed before he arrived.

  I should’ve looked more closely at the frighteningly thick set of legal documents Leo, my boss, slapped in front of me—maybe that could have prevented this situation. But I relied on Leo’s summary: The person who would be staying in the house for the next four weeks required discretion. In addition to keeping a lower profile than I usually did when there were tenants, I was forbidden to discuss anything about the person staying there. I signed the papers without even asking why someone would have such requirements. I should’ve asked.

  If Teresa notices that my ears are on fire, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she tips her head back, letting out a laugh. “Wow. Is that fate or what?”

  I take a step back, out of the reach of her hands. “Only if it’s my fate to make an ass out of myself.”

  “Oh, enough with the feeling sorry for yourself already,” Reagan says. “Look on the bright side: You got to make out with a totally hot guy. And I bet you got Graham’s attention. I’m calling this a win-win.”

  The door opens again and my eyes flash guiltily in its direction, expecting it to be Graham who’s walking in. He’s playing tonight, but once my heartbeat ratchets down, I realize it’s far too early for him to be coming in to set up. Instead, half a dozen forty-something men walk in and plop down at the half-empty bar. I’ve never been so relieved to see an upswing in customers. I don’t want to talk about this anymore—especially now that Teresa’s here. She and Reagan have this tendency to gang up on me about things like this. Instead, I lose myself in helping the newcomers. Half the guys have been here before and know exactly what they want, but the others ask for recommendations and samples. By the time they’re all taken care of, another group has arrived. Sunday evening is in full swing.

  Teresa grabs an apron from the cupboard under the bar and heads into the back room to punch in. Reagan remains planted on her bar stool, chatting up a semi-regular patron with dark, spiky hair and a sleeve of tattoos on each arm. Every so often, she brushes her fingers along one of the inked works, nodding and tilting her head as he explains the meaning of each one. I can’t help the surge of jealousy building. She doesn’t understand—it’s so easy for her to talk with a guy, to flirt with a guy. I just don’t have that inside me.

  I’m wiping down the bar again—this time because it needs it—when I notice someone standing at the end, holding a hand up to get my attention. I sigh. Dalton, the other bartender on duty tonight, is supposed to be covering the tables, but he sometimes forgets to do things like check if people want refills. When that happens, those people make their way to the bar and ask me to do it. This wouldn’t be a problem except Dalton doesn’t understand this means I should get a cut of his tips—since, you know, I’m doing his job. I toss the rag back into the bucket and head down to the end of the bar, but my step falters when I see who’s standing there.

  Graham. It must be later than I realized. I didn’t even see him come in.

  Heat rises in my cheeks. He never comes back to the bar. If he wants a drink, he’ll flag down whoever’s covering the tables. Why on earth is he here now?

  I take in a breath. He’s dressed simply, as usual, in jeans and a vintage-style tee. He rubs his thumb against the hairs on his chin as I approach. “Hey, Graham. What’s up?”

  His mouth curls into a smile. “Hey, Ash...” His eyes flick to my name tag. “...Lyn. Is Kevin around tonight?”

  I shake my head. Kevin, the pub’s owner and hirer of entertainers, doesn’t work Sundays. “I think he’s supposed to be in tomorrow. Want me to give him a message?”

  “Nah. I just wanted to check the next time I’m playing here.”

  My eyebrows pull together. Shouldn’t he know that? And even if he forgot for some reason, I happen to know Kevin’s got a dedicated number for musicians to call or text with these kinds of questions. Why wouldn’t he just use that? “You play next Friday.” I know because I had to switch shifts to be sure I worked that day—but I don’t tell him that.

  He nods. “Cool. Thanks.”

  I wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. There’s not an empty seat at the bar and I know I should get back to the customers, but I can’t make myself turn away. I’m grateful Reagan’s at the other end of the bar, probably still groping tattoo guy, thus unlikely to notice where I am or who I’m talking to.

  Graham shifts his weight, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “You and your boyfriend seemed to like the show the other night.”

  Heat creeps into my cheeks at the mention of Everett. Since my run-in with him yesterday, I’ve given the lake house a wide berth. More than the smack of embarrassment I felt at his leaving the other night without asking for my number—or more—there’s the thrum of humiliation that resurfaces when I remember his explanation for not having done it. He was helping me get another guy. This guy. “Oh, him. He’s not... I mean, I’m not...” My cheeks are on fire now, but I don’t look away. How can I explain it to Graham without admitting I was only kissing Everett to make him jealous?

  The silence between us stretches a beat too long. Graham rubs at the close-cropped hairs on his chin, blowing out a breath. “Anyway—I should probably start playing before Kevin fires me.”

  I curse myself as he heads for the low stage at the other end of the room. Why am I so miserably incapable of flirting? Or not even flirting—simply carrying on a conversation with a guy?

  As Graham begins his first set, I try to keep myself busy refilling glasses and loading the dishwasher so I won’t be tempted to watch him. I’m mostly successful, but every other song or so, he’ll start singing a part that I can’t block out and my eyes stray in his direction. I don’t consider myself an expert on music, but I’m certainly a lover of it. I couldn’t tell you whether a song is musically complex enough, but I know when it sounds good, when the lyrics bring up something ins
ide me, when the voice melds with those words, making them mean more than they would if just written on paper. When Graham sings, the lyrics and tunes weave through me like a silver thread, holding me together. How can I not be drawn to someone who makes me feel this way?

  At the end of his first set, my body tenses. Will he come over here again? Or is our failed conversation from before all the communication we’ll have tonight? I still haven’t figured out what to say about Everett if he asks again. That’s what I should’ve been doing for the last twenty minutes, but I’ve never claimed to be that smart—or that devious.

  Under the guise of checking on a nearby table, I glance up toward the stage. Graham’s off it now, hands pressed against the back of a chair as he leans forward, chatting with a group of girls near the front. I watch their interaction. Graham smiles, making eye contact with one of the girls in particular—one with obviously dyed blonde hair and a plunging neckline—but she only glances in his direction minimally, not quite enough to be polite, and directs most of her comments at her friends. She doesn’t appear to be interested in him at all, but Graham isn’t getting the hint. He grabs an unoccupied chair from a nearby table and situates himself in it, near the girl, but she continues to not engage him in conversation. The girl next to her, on the other hand, is just a few minutes from giving him a lap dance—but he barely looks at her.

  “You’re not scamming on my tips, are you?” Teresa nudges me gently with her elbow, flashing her dazzling white teeth before following my gaze and rolling her eyes. “Classic.”

  I tear my eyes away as lap-dance girl strokes Graham’s arm and giggles—not for the first time. “What? What’s classic?”

  She lifts her chin in Graham’s direction. “He’s one of those guys. Looking for a challenge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She strokes my cheek, giving a pitying smile. “Oh, hon. You really are clueless about guys, aren’t you?”

  I take the jab. I know she doesn’t mean it as an insult and I try my best not to take it as one. “I’m always willing to learn.”