I was finished with the Smart sisters. Finished with their drama, their competitiveness, their messy, complicated relationship.
Finished with being a pawn in their fucked up game.
“Good luck, Alex,” I said quietly, flipping back the lock and reaching for the door handle. “I hope you find everything you’re looking for.”
And then I walked out. Out of her life. Out of her convoluted, fucked-up shit. And most importantly, out of her reach.
And as I exited the bar into the twilight of another completed day, I wondered if I was the first guy in the world to ever successfully disentangle myself from a member of the Smart family.
The thought made me smile.
Epilogue
One year later…
I pour the extra foam off the head of the beer and slide it in front of the tired local who sits at the bar. He looks like he’s had a long day. He nods gratefully at me and takes a long gulp.
“Thanks,” he says with a breath.
“No problem.”
Even though it holds a few bad memories, there are many things I like about bartending at Hank’s. Business is always steady. The drink orders are usually simple and straight forward (nothing I have to look up with an app on my phone). But the thing I like most is the fact that the rich, lonely housewives never set foot in here. I think it’s something about the neon Miller Light sign in the window and the handwritten happy hour menu in the front that keeps them at bay. And that’s perfectly fine with me.
Sure the occasional fight between locals does break out from time to time, but nothing I can’t handle. The fellow customers usually break it up anyway.
At first it was hard to look at the booth in the back and not think about Lia or Alex or the drama they dragged me into. But that’s pretty much worn off by now. I haven’t seen Alex since I left her in the men’s bathroom. I occasionally see Lia around town and we politely say hello but that’s about it.
I hear Lia and Grayson are still together. They rented an apartment in town. He runs the family restaurant and the last I heard she had sold a graphic novel to a publishing house in New York.
I don’t envy Grayson Walker for still being mixed up in that family, but hey, to each their own, right? I guess if you love someone enough, you make it work.
“Another Blue Moon for table 2,” Vee says to me, placing her serving tray down on the bar and bending down to tie her converse sneaker.
I pull a clean pint glass from the rack and place it under the tap.
Vee is dating a really nice stock broker who lives in the city. After three months of rejecting her advances, she finally gave up on me. She told me jokingly the first time she brought him into the bar, “I couldn’t wait for you forever, Blake.”
And I nodded.
I never expected her to.
The door jingles and I look up. It’s still early. Our usual after-work rush doesn’t start for another thirty minutes. I’m surprised to see someone I don’t recognize walk through the door. It’s very rare that we get any non-locals in here.
The girl who just walked in is so stunning, I completely forget that I’m pouring a beer. The cold liquid rushes over the top of the glass onto my hand. I jump out of my trance and release the tap, wiping my wet fingers on the towel that’s hanging on my shoulder.
She approaches the bar and gives me a smile. It’s not the kind of smile that comes with an agenda. It’s just a simple, sweet, carefree smile that shows off a set of perfect white teeth.
Her hair is the color of midday sun. It’s wound in tight curls that bounce off the tops of her shoulders, like they’re playing hopscotch on her fair, freckled skin.
“Hi,” I say, abandoning the pint of Blue Moon, much to the annoyance of Vee who is still waiting for it. But I don’t care. I have to talk to this girl. It’s a need that I don’t even recognize. Because it doesn’t come from any place but the unfamiliar burning desire to simply hear her voice.
“Hi,” she says, and just as I suspected, it’s the most precious thing I’ve ever heard. I look down, half expecting to see my heart in a puddle on the floor. “This is an interesting place.”
And she has a British accent. Fuck.
“What can I get you?” The words nearly gurgle out of my mouth. I’m feeling so unsmooth right now I barely recognize myself.
She bites her lip as she studies the taps.
Well, isn’t that just about the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen?
“Hmmm. What do you recommend?” she asks.
A date with me, I want to say but refrain. I know instantly that this is not the kind of girl to use sly pick-up lines on. She’ll run the other way.
“Well, that depends. What are you in the mood for?”
She slides onto a stool and puffs out a gust of air. Her breath smells like honey. “Well, I’ve just got off the plane from London and I’ve got to run errands with my cousin tonight, so anything that cures jet lag would be fantastic.”
“Right,” I say, “I have just the thing.”
Even though I don’t. Even though I don’t have a clue what cures jetlag. But I’m not about to say no to this girl. And I have a feeling I might never be able to say no to her.
I start pouring liquids into a mixer, not even sure what I’m making. I just know that it has to be epic. It has to make her fall in love with me.
No pressure or anything.
“You said you’re here to see your cousin?” I ask.
“Yes. She’s getting married this weekend. I’m a bridesmaid.”
My mind instantly flashes to the image of this girl in a bridesmaid dress. Something pastel and strapless that shows off her pale skin and delicate shoulders.
Aaaand now I’m hard.
Perfect.
I adjust my jeans as I finish the mysterious concoction and set it in front of her. She takes a sip and I hold my breath.
Her reaction is perplexing. I can’t, for the life of me, tell if she likes it, or is trying to hide her gag reflexes.
And that’s probably because I can’t, for the life of me, even remember what I put in it.
“So?” I ask hopefully.
She smiles. “It’s perfect.”
You’re perfect, I think and nearly say it aloud.
I lean forward on the bar, cupping my chin in my hand. “So, how long are you in town? Do you need like a tour guide or anything?”
She giggles. “I didn’t think Eastbrook was the sort of place where one needs a tour guide.”
“Well,” I reply, “isn’t that exactly what one would say if one didn’t know one needed a tour guide?”
What am I saying right now?
I don’t even know if I’m still speaking English.
She takes a sip. “I suppose it is.”
“Is that a yes, then?”
She grins and opens her mouth to answer. I’m almost positive it’s a yes. But I never get to hear it. The front door jingles again and in walks the one and only Lia Smart.
Fuck.
I watch open mouthed as the girl slides off the barstool and runs right into Lia’s outstretched arms. They hug for what feels like an eternity. Enough time for the blood to drain from my face. For all sensation to leave my toes. For my slow, inept brain to make the horrifying connection.
“Wait a minute,” I say, when they finally pull apart. “This is your cousin?”
The girl nods, an adorable jubilant smile lighting up her face like a Christmas tree.
“Hey Blake,” Lia offers a friendly greeting. “How are you?”
But I don’t return it. Because my mind is still reeling from the implication. “As in blood related?” I confirm.
The girl giggles. “Yes. Her father is my father’s brother.”
The floor suddenly drops out from under my feet. This can’t be happening. Of all the girls in all the fucking world.
“So that would make you a...a…Smart?” I ask, still hoping this is all a terrible dream. Or just a really bad joke.
I have the distinct feeling that Lia is following my train of thought. “This is Emma Smart. She’s from the British side of the family.” She turns to her cousin. “This is Blake Thomas. He used to work for me.”
Despite the change in circumstances, I’m grateful that she left out the other details of our history.
Emma extends her hand and I stand there speechless and stunned for a moment before my brain kicks into gear and I reach out to shake it. “Nice to meet you,” I mumble, but the words feel stiff and swollen on my tongue.
“Blake’s offered to take me on a tour of the town,” Emma says brightly, beaming toward Lia.
Lia’s gaze meets mine. She raises her eyebrows and flashes me a conspiratorial smile that would put James Bond to shame. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
THE END
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OUT FROM UNDER YOU
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Prologue
Lia
No one ever tells you the truth about love. It’s a massive conspiracy and the entire world is in on it.
They make love look like a brochure for a tropical island vacation. All gentle breezes and warm waters and happy endings tied up with string.
But in reality, it’s not like that at all.
It’s not quiet and safe and blissful. Or picturesque like a sunset on a postcard wishing you were here.
Love is an earthquake. It comes when you least expect it. It shakes your foundation to the core. It rips the ground clear away.
Right out from under you.
Everyone lies about love. Everyone hides the messiness away, sweeps it under the rug, and then paints it over with an idyllic portrait to fool you into thinking their life belongs on a movie screen.
But I’m not going to do that.
Some stories are just too big to be swept under the rug. They deserve the truth. The whole truth. No matter how imperfect it is. No matter how much debris and devastation are exposed to the world.
Some stories simply have to be told.
One
Lia
“The confetti is too much. Do you think the confetti is too much?”
I take a sip from my wine glass and study the table from another angle. The small four-top in the back corner of the restaurant is set for three people and decorated with plastic Italian vines, a vase of white lilies, and gold shimmery confetti strewn across the deep red tablecloth.
The 2007 Sangiovese that I spent an hour selecting from the restaurant’s wine cellar is sitting unopened in the center. I snatch it up, shaking my head adamantly. “No, the wine is all wrong. I’m going to look for something else.”
Blake catches my wrist as I turn to go, carefully easing the bottle out of my iron fist. “Lia, the wine is fine. The confetti looks great. Relax.”
Reluctantly I allow him to remove the bottle from my hand and return it to the table.
“I don’t understand,” he says, “why are you making such a big deal about this?”
I sigh and collapse into one of the chairs, taking a long, satisfying pull from my glass. “My sister hasn’t been back here for over a year. Since before my mom left. I just want her to see how well the place is doing.”
Blake glances around the twenty-table restaurant. It’s nearly empty apart from one lone couple who appear to be on a particularly bad date. They’ve barely said more than a sentence to each other since sitting down, and the woman is pushing uneaten ravioli around on her plate as though she were attempting to spell out an SOS distress call.
“Um,” Blake begins cautiously, “I hate to be the one to break this to you, but we’re not exactly booming. We could easily have sex on the bar and no one would notice.” He turns to me and cocks an eyebrow. “Actually, that’s the best idea I’ve had all day.”
I groan and stand up, giving him a mock shove with my elbow as I walk by. “What did I tell you about sexually harassing the boss’s daughter?”
He shrugs. “I thought it was part of the job description. You know, tend the bar, pour the drinks, make unwanted advances on the woman who signs my paycheck. Besides you haven’t been the ‘boss’s daughter’ in a while.”
I know he’s right. It’s been almost a year since my mom split town without warning, leaving her precious little Italian bistro—her pride and joy—to nearly be sold off piecemeal by my grieving father. If I hadn’t dropped out of the University of Connecticut and offered to run the place myself, it would probably be a seedy nightclub by now.
But I refused to let that happen. I couldn’t bear to stand by while my mom’s dream got auctioned off to the highest bidder. She spent years building this place up, creating all the recipes, hand-selecting every bottle of wine and framed photograph on the wall. I couldn’t watch it all fall apart.
The problem is, a year later, that’s exactly what’s happening.
It’s falling apart.
Our Yelp rating has dropped from a 4.5 to a 2.5 in a matter of months, and we rarely serve more than two tables at a time. I remember when we were so busy, people left because the wait was too long. Now, I’m this close to pulling random people off the streets and paying them to sit down. If only just to fill chairs so it won’t look so fucking depressing in here.
I scurry over to the bar and pour myself another glass of wine.
“You’re going to drink away all our profits,” Blake remarks, squeezing behind me, and pinching my waist as he passes.
“Good one.” I laugh and check the clock on my phone.
“What time is the famous Alex supposed to arrive?”
I roll my eyes. “Infamous is more like it. And fifteen minutes ago. But Alex is always late. She likes making people wait for her. It’s one of her many talents. I told my dad I’d text when she got here, so he doesn’t have to wait, too.”
I swallow half the wine in one gulp.
“Sit down then.” Blake ushers me to one of the bar stools. “Chillax for a second. I’ve never seen you so stressed out.”
I sink into the seat and exhale out half a lung as Blake begins massaging my shoulders. “Sorry. Alex just does that to me. She’s…” I wheel my hand around, trying to capture my sister in one word, but all I can come up with is, “Well, she’s Alex.”
“Is she as hot as everyone in this town says she is?”
“Hotter.”
“Not hotter than you, though. Obviously.”
I scoff. “Let’s put it this way. If you had gone to high school with us, you wouldn’t even have known who I was. And our high school had ninety people in it.”
Blake leans in and whispers hot and breathy in my ear. “I certainly know who you are now.”
I shrug him away, wiping the moisture from my cheek. Blake returns to the other side of the bar, leaning on his elbows and focusing his hazel eyes on me. “So. When are you going to let me take you out for a real drink?”
I bark out a laugh. Blake is harmless. I’ve learned never to take his advances seriously. Flirting is just something that happens when you work in a restaurant. And Blake flirts with everyone.
“My family doesn’t have a good history with bartenders,” I remind him.
“I’m not like most bartenders.”
“You’re exactly like most bartenders,” I shoot back.
He feigns offense but at least he’s stopped giving me those stupid lovesick puppy eyes.
I swallow another mouthful of wine.
“Maybe you should slow down.” His eyes narrow in concern.
“Actually, I should speed up. There’s only one way to arm yourself against Alex Smart.” I “cheers” the air with my wine.
Blake takes a clean beer mug from the sink and starts to dry it with his towel. “I thought sisters were supposed to be like best friends or something.”
I shrug. “Some are.”
> I polish off the wine in my glass and tap the rim. Blake picks up a new bottle from the shelf and examines the label. “How about a glass of the…” he squints as he reads the name of the vineyard, “In-kai-sa day-la rock-chetta.”
I fight back an eye roll. “Incisa della Rocchetta,” I correct his pronunciation of the Tuscan wine. “And sure.”
Blake is a sweetheart and a great bartender but his Italian sucks.
After what happened a year ago, however, we stopped hiring Italian bartenders.
He uncorks the bottle and swaps out my glass. Just then, I feel a tap on my shoulder and I freeze. Leave it up to Alex to sneak in when my back is turned. To catch me unaware.
I turn around and my stomach immediately unclenches when I see it’s just Olivia, our one and only server. She’s holding a plate of barely touched ravioli with a frown on her face.
My body wilts. “Don’t tell me,” I say, feeling disappointment cover me like a wet rag.
She cringes. “Sorry.”
“What did they say was wrong with it?”
She bites her lip. I can tell it kills her to bring this to me. “They just said the sauce was...bland.”
My hand clenches around the stem of my newly filled glass. “How could it be bland? I followed my mother’s recipe to the teaspoon. It has everything in it that she put in it. I don’t understand! No one ever called my mother’s sauces bland.”
Olivia stands there, unsure of what to say. I know this is not her fault and it’s wrong of me to take it out on her. So I simply sigh and stand up from my bar stool. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll take it off their bill.”
She flashes me the quickest of smiles and disappears. I trudge over to the computer, input my manager’s code, and comp the ravioli, bringing the couple’s bill down from $35.95 to $15.34.
Combined with the two other tables we’ve had, that brings are total sales tonight to....
Sixty-two dollars.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
My phone gives a shrill ding and I jump. “Oh! My cannoli!”
I hurry through the server’s station and into the kitchen. Blake is on my heels. “Cannoli? You don’t even make cannoli for the regular menu.”
Caught Up in You (Smart Girls Finish First) Page 6