3 Book Romance Bundle: "Loving The Bull Rider" & "Cowboy Down Under" & "The Escort Next Door"
Page 13
Chapter One
Laura whistled to herself as she wandered into the kitchen. She’d just got back from a run, but didn’t look particularly fatigued by it. In fact, she looked positively radiant in her tight aqua blue shorts, and a day-glow tank, which clung to a form that managed to be both athletic and feminine. Her long, sleek blonde locks were swept back in a ponytail, not a hair out of place. There was a slight gleam of sweat to her forehead as she shook the stiffness in her legs. Those, however, were the only hints that she’d been doing anything strenuous.
The most strenuous thing I’d done that morning was haul my exhausted butt out of bed. Barely able to hold my head up at the small kitchen table, I considered it a Herculean achievement to get the slice of toast from its plate to my mouth.
“Working last night?” she asked, with a sympathetic smile. She only flicked her eyes at me, though. Her focus was predominantly taken up with a small clutch of envelopes she held. One of her iPod’s buds continued to pump Whitney Houston’s ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ in her left ear, the other dangled on her chest and told me not only what she was listening to, but also gave me an idea of how deaf she was going to become in her old age. Very deaf.
“Yeah,” I muttered dejectedly, crunching on a piece of burnt crust. It wasn’t that I hated waitressing, it was just that...No, scratch that, I did hate waitressing. There were no redeeming features to the job. The money was pitiful, the restaurant’s patrons were rude, my boss spent most of his time leering at all the female waiting staff, and the chef had a temper that could rival Stalin’s. It was all hideous. But there wasn’t exactly a surplus of jobs around, and I desperately needed the small amount of cash I was earning.
“You need to get out more,” she pointed out. “Meet some new people,” she added, sifting through the mail absentmindedly. “Meet some new men.”
That last addition was unnecessary. I knew well enough that ‘people’ had meant ‘men’. “I’m too busy,” I said around a mouthful of toast. “Besides, it’s all too...” Faltering, I waved my half-eaten, charred bread around as I searched for the right word. “Raw,” I eventually huffed.
“It’s been six months,” she pointedly noted, clasping one envelope between her thumb and forefinger and gracefully flicking it onto the table like a lightweight Frisbee. “For you,” she succinctly told me.
Six months might have seemed like a long time to her. And, I suppose, it might be a long time. But it didn’t feel that way to me. Well, that’s not quite true. It existed in a strange realm that didn’t obey the normal rules of time and space. On one hand, it seemed like it only happened yesterday. On the other hand, it felt like a lifetime ago.
Hoping to let that topic die a natural death, I dropped my breakfast back on the plate and reached across the table. Picking up the envelope in crumby hands, I turned it over before ripping it open.
“It’s about time you moved on,” she added, unwilling apparently to let the matter drop. “Ya’ know, get back on the horse and all that.”
My eyes sticking fast to the motion of my hands as I grabbed hold of the edge of the letter and pulled, I made a noise that acknowledged I’d heard her, but which left no doubt that I was unimpressed by the notion.
“He’s moved on, Faith,” she added quietly.
“I know,” I responded flatly. “If you think I’m wallowing and waiting for him to realize he’s made a mistake, you’re wrong.”
It’s something we’d talked about before, and it’s an opinion I had been clear about. I wondered if she believed me, though. I guess, from the outside, my reluctance to even consider meeting someone new seemed like an unwillingness to move on. In reality, it was a reluctance to be hurt, and to complicate my life. Things were much simpler single.
Not looking up, I unfolded the piece of paper in my hands and immediately noted the Berkeley logo. It only took another couple of seconds to catch the word, ‘sorry’ and, at that point, I groaned.
“What’s up?” Laura asked, tossing the rest of the mail on the counter and unclipping her iPod from her shorts.
“Dear Ms. Solano,” I read aloud, “thank you for your application to enroll in our ancient history PhD program.” Not bothering to finish, I toss the letter onto the table and turn my face to hers. “Blah, blah, blah.”
Pursing her lips, she gave me a compassionate smile. “Which one?” she asked.
“Berkeley,” I sulkily mumbled.
“Sorry,” she sighed. Methodically winding the cable of her headphones, she wore a somber expression as she chewed her bottom lip. “So, what does that leave?”
“That’s it,” I replied, picking up my toast only to tap its corner on the rim of the plate. “That’s the last one.” Disheartened and disgusted, I abandoned the thought of eating and pushed myself out of the chair. “It’s a big, fat ‘no’ from Stanford, Yale, Brown and now Berkeley.”
“Well, what are you gonna do?” she asked quietly.
Tossing both hands theatrically in the air, I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I grumbled. “Get used to serving ribs, I guess,” I added sardonically.
“There must be other programs that have extended deadlines,” she contended. One of the things I’ve always loved about Laura is that she’s never entertained my self-pity. She was an expert at wrangling me in from my childish mood swings.
I wiped the disappointed look from my face, but shook my head. “I think I’m gonna have to wait until next year,” I stated with resignation. “Maybe it’s for the best,” I added, trying to find a bright side. “I was going to struggle to afford it. This will give me a chance to save.” That was all very true, but I couldn’t pretend to feel good about the prospect of another twelve months at the restaurant.
“I thought your parents said they’d help,” she argued, her faultless memory recalling my mom’s visit nine weeks earlier.
“They did,” I agreed, “but I don’t want to mooch off of them.” Running my hands through my light brown hair, which hadn’t even seen a brush that morning, I released a deep sigh. “It’s fine,” I assured her, forcing myself to man up. “Everything will work out fine. Another year won’t kill me.”
She knew how much I hated that place, and she also knew how much I was looking forward to starting my PhD in the coming academic year. I’d loved every second of my masters. It had been the sole focus of my life, even before Rich dumped me. He’d implied that was why he dumped me. Although the speed with which he’d hooked up with Candy, or Candice, or whatever her name was, suggested there were other factors in his decision. Since then, Laura and I had taken to using a different shortening of his name when referring to him.
Anyway, the doctorate program had swiftly become the most important thing to me. I’d figured, as long as I had that, I would be OK. And when that was swiped out from underneath me, it was difficult to be positive and philosophical.
Leaning her hip against the counter, Laura peered skeptically at me. “I’m sure it will be,” she concealed calmly. “But I still think there must be another way.”
With a half-hearted shrug, I scooped up my plate and carried it to the sink. “It’s fine,” I insisted. “I’ve still got the summer to look forward to.” Forcing a smile, which turned somewhat genuine when I considered that I did, indeed, have the summer to look forward to, I met her pale blue eyes.
“Hmm,” she seemed to agree, although it was undeniably subdued.
“Do you mind if I jump in the shower first?” I added; keen to leave the room before she started to pick at my facade of acceptance. “I’ve got a class in an hour.”
“Sure,” she responded, reaching blindly behind her to a fruit bowl. “We can talk about it later,” she offered, picking up a banana.
I nodded as I left the room, but said nothing and was glad to be out from under her scrutinizing gaze. I hated the fact she could see through my ‘brave face’. I hated the fact she knew me so well; I was used to being able to hide around people - even people who had
known me for years. To a lesser or greater extent, we all keep everyone at a distance. Even those we claim to be closest to don’t really know us; not all of us. Not every single thought and feeling.
But Laura was exceptionally perceptive, or perhaps she simply cared enough to really take notice of those around her. She didn’t seem to see my deepest darkest secrets; at least, if she did she didn’t make it known. However, she never failed to spot any emotion I tried to camouflage. It was unnerving.
And, at the same time, I loved it.
I had known her for almost five years, and, in that time, she hadn’t just become my best friend, but also the best friend I’d ever had. I strongly suspect, she’ll be the best friend I ever have.
It was a classic case of opposites attracting. My field of study was humanities, and I was passionate about literature, and art and the theatre. Laura, in contrast, was a woman of ‘hard science’. She was in the midst of her masters in chemistry, and had plans to go into pharmacology. On paper, she and I shouldn’t have got along so well. We shared precious few interests. But that didn’t seem to matter.
We’d been living together for two years. Amazingly, we have never had a big argument. Of course we have are little girly spats, like a couple days ago Laura borrowed my favorite shirt without asking. I did not appreciate that so we talked… I think that is why are friendship is so strong, we talk about everything. Being one of precious few women in her program, Laura had been hit on by almost every single one of her male classmates. She’d dated a few of them, but it never really amounted to much. That didn’t seem to faze her, though. She was content just dating. In fact, she seemed to thrive much more on the variety. A steady relationship wasn’t in her plans. My own losing in love probably helped to cement her view that ‘serious’ was not a good idea.
Just as you’d expect from a good friend, she was there to pick up the pieces. Or more accurately, to help me drown my sorrows with ice cream and vodka, then hold my hair back while I spent the rest of the night vomiting. Not a pretty sight. So, Laura had seen me at my worst. I would like to say, I’d seen her at hers. But I don’t think she had a ‘worst’. She wasn’t perfect, but the only cracks I’d seen were minor: arguments with her mom; a penchant for texting an old boyfriend when she’d had a few glasses of wine; a noisy and energetic session of sex with a guy I struggled to look at the following morning - it was almost impossible not to giggle after hearing him yell, ‘I’m the man!’ as he climaxed.
Anyway, living with her had been fun. Leaving her, and the apartment that had come to be ours, was the one part of moving on and completing my PhD that I wasn’t looking forward to. The chance to stay a while longer was the only good thing about all of those great colleges turning me down. By the time i climbed out of the shower and dried off, I tried to hang on to that thought.