Reserved for You

by Brenda Margriet

  Lainie nodded. “Just because you don’t have the training doesn’t mean you can’t learn. You had way higher grades than me in high school.”

  “You’re the one who went to university. And now you have a fancy job with a television production company.”

  “Trust me, it’s not that fancy. You could probably do the same job with your eyes closed.”

  Miriam was right. Lainie was cheering her up. It meant so much to have someone else on her side. But she had to face facts. “Reality is, I’ve done nothing but food service since graduation. I have no other skills.”

  Lainie squirmed, tugging her tight skirt toward her knees. Jemma couldn’t wait to see if she managed to get off the stool without embarrassing herself. “What about that theatre you worked at?”

  “Closed down.” She remembered the drama and excitement of the live theatre company fondly. It had been so much fun, building sets, gathering props, helping with costumes. “Besides, that was more of a hobby. The pay was worse than peanuts.”

  “Don’t worry.” Lainie patted Jemma’s cheek. “It’s going to work out.”

  “You sound like Gramma.”

  “Well, we’re both right.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The following morning Jemma settled at the kitchen table and started her callbacks. Lainie’s pep talk the night before had boosted her confidence, and she was once again certain it wouldn’t take long to find another job.

  She began with the most prosperous-looking of the restaurants that had advertised for servers.

  “Ah, yes, Ms. Hedge. I have your resumé right here.”

  Something in the manager’s voice raised the hairs on her arms. “I have several years of experience in a restaurant much like yours, Mr...um...” Dammit. She couldn’t remember his name. She should have scribbled it down when she was in yesterday. “I know I would fit in well with such a successful business,” she choked out. She hated sucking up.

  “I would have thought so myself, except I received a call from Dane Smythe yesterday, after you were in.”

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “He informed me of the circumstances surrounding your departure from Spoonful.”

  She swallowed hard. “He did?”

  “I’m sorry, but there are no openings for you here.” The connection broke with a soft click.

  Stunned, she called the next restaurant. To be greeted by the same response.

  Doggedly she called every business on her list, but it was no use. Slumping in her seat she stared blankly at the wall opposite.

  Dane’s revenge was thorough and devastating.

  The wooden bench was so cool it felt damp under her butt, but it was such a relief to get off her feet Jemma didn’t care.

  The scent of buttery caramel popcorn tickled her nose, mingling with the sharper, briny stench of the ocean. Behind her the various shops and businesses of Granville Island bustled with late afternoon customers, locals and visitors alike. In front of her, the glass and steel skyline of Vancouver allowed glimpses of the North Shore mountains.

  Dane couldn’t have called every single restaurant in Vancouver. He must have done what she had— checked the want ads and called those establishments first. All she had to do was apply at restaurants where he hadn’t spread his poison. Which is what she’d spent all day doing.

  She had dropped off her last resumé at Bridges Bistro. It had taken hours to reach all the restaurants she’d targeted, and she was allowing herself a short break before climbing onto one last bus for the ride home.

  A gleaming white yacht motored stately by, spring sunshine glittering off its wake Seagulls flew escort, their discordant calls breaking through the sound of rushing traffic on the bridge high overhead. A clumsy looking Aquabus pulled up at the dock, its passengers including an excited chocolate Lab retriever. She smiled as the dog bounced on the end of its leash, nearly tipping his thin, bespectacled owner into the green sludgy water as she did her best to control his exuberance.

  With a groan, Jemma dragged herself off the bench and made her way through the throng into the market, heading for the bus stop. A stall with fresh salmon lying on beds of ice caught her eye and she veered toward it. Miriam would enjoy fish for dinner. Maybe a small piece wouldn’t be too expensive.

  “Hello, again.”

  She lifted her eyes and met the welcoming, appreciative gaze of the maitre d’ from Paulo’s.

  He smiled, sharp dimples slashing his cheeks, a faint brush of stubble shadowing his jaw. Casually dressed in jeans and dark blue hoodie, he carried a reusable bag, out of which frothy green fronds waved.

  “Hello, yourself.” Her roiling emotions the night they’d met hadn’t stopped her from feeling a tug of attraction. It shimmered along her nerves once more. “Not working today?”

  “Just picking up a few extras before I head in.” He leaned closer to the stall to examine the fish. His shoulder brushed hers. “Had any more trouble with that guy?”

  An unfamiliar sense of gratitude twisted through her. She didn’t need to be rescued, but it was nice to know someone would bother to do so. Even if it was only part of his job. He wouldn’t have wanted the scene to get out of hand any more than she had. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He glanced over his shoulder and dark hair flopped onto his forehead. “What about you? Doing some shopping, too?”

  “I was dropping off resumés.” She itched to brush back the unruly lock of hair. Disconcerted, she fisted her fingers into her palms instead.

  He straightened. “You need a job?”

  She pursed her lips, shrugging off the question. “Let’s just say my last boss wasn’t happy when I refused to do something for him.” She briefly considered asking if there were any positions available at Paulo’s but decided it was too much of a long shot to attempt. “What about your boss? He wasn’t pissed at you for what happened that night?”

  “No, of course not. Actually...”

  “Can I help you?” The customer in line ahead of Jemma, a rotund lady wearing a vibrant pink toque, trundled away, and the clerk waited expectantly.

  She quickly calculated prices, and decided she’d have to settle for canned tuna. As usual. “Not today, thanks. But I think he wants something.” She nodded to the man from Paulo’s. “Nice meeting you again.”

  “Wait a minute.” His free hand curled around her forearm, and a zing of awareness zipped through her veins. “I have time before work. Let me buy you coffee.”

  She hesitated, tempted, wondering if he realized his thumb was making tantalizing circles on the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. Dating Dane had been a political move. Dating this man would be strictly for herself. “I suppose I could spare the time.”

  “Excellent.”

  The clerk’s exasperated tones cut between them. “Are you going to order something or not?”

  “Sorry, not right now.” He released her arm and they stepped out of line. He pointed to a coffee shop down the way. “I’m a fan of the lattes there.”

  “Sounds good.” Her pulse thudded pleasantly as she walked beside him through the crowded aisle.

  “I should introduce myself.” He angled his body, deflecting the flow of people so she could step inside the café. “My name is—”

  Jemma’s cell phone rang. “I’m sorry.” She checked the screen. Miriam. “I have to take this.”

  He gestured for her to go ahead, his lips curved in an understanding smile.

  “Are you on your way home, Jemma?”

  She shot a glance at the man waiting beside her. “Pretty soon. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.” Miriam’s voice wavered.

  “Are you sure?” Jemma’s protective instincts went on alert.

  “It’s fine. I’m sorry I called. I’ll see you soon.” She disconnected.

  Jemma frowned at the phone.

  “Trouble?” He sounded genuinely concerned. But then, she already knew he was a nice guy
.

  “I don’t think so, but I’d better take a pass on the coffee.” She tossed her long bangs out of her eyes. “Sorry about that.” The regret she felt seemed out of proportion to the circumstances.

  “I’m sorry, too.” He tipped his head to one side. “Maybe another time.”

  She took a couple of steps away. “It was nice seeing you again.”

  “You, too.” He nodded.

  She headed for the bus stop, resisting the urge to look back.

  One week later, at 4:29 p.m. precisely, Paul unlocked the front door of Paulo’s. His vision of an up-scale, prestigious restaurant had never included the daytime crowd. Which was lucky, because his parents’ restaurant served breakfast and lunch, and he hadn’t wanted to be accused of stealing his father’s business, especially since it was right next door. However, he’d discovered affluent business people preferred to avoid rush hour traffic with a drink and appetizers before heading to their multi-million-dollar homes outside the metro area, so he’d adjusted accordingly.

  At 4:31 p.m. precisely, the door opened. He turned toward it with a welcoming smile.

  And the wicked fairy walked in.

  Seven days ago, when she’d rushed out of the market on Granville Island, he’d been disappointed. More disappointed than he liked to admit. The strength of his attraction, tempered by puzzlement, had given him pause. She was nothing like the other women he occasionally dated, when he’d had a life that included such things, when he wasn’t so focused on work. Yet he found himself thinking of her at odd times.

  Once again she was dressed in black. A collared blouse, discreetly buttoned, topped stovepipe slacks draping sleekly to high-heeled pumps. Even with the added inches she didn’t reach his shoulder. Her heavy boots might be gone, but the shock of pink tipped hair still fell over one of her astonishingly pale blue eyes.

  He waited as she approached, the confident stride he’d noticed the other times they’d met replaced by a tentative gait. Paul wondered how often she wore such feminine shoes.

  “Hello,” she said. “Me, again.” Her smile dipped uncertainly at the corners.

  “Hello.” If they were going to keep meeting like this he would have to ask her name. “Would you like a table?”

  She shook her head and held out a manila envelope. “No, thank you. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind passing this on to your manager.”

  Written in fancy calligraphic lettering on the front of the envelope was “Jemma Hedge - Resumé.” She’d even added the accent above the ‘e’. Well, that answered more than one question.

  And created a delicate situation.

  Paul could imagine Daniel’s face if he hired this creature. It didn’t matter if she was a top-notch server. She came nowhere near the image either of them wanted Paulo’s to present, with her tattoo and nose piercing and unnatural hair colour.

  “You haven’t found a job yet?” It was a stupid question, but it bought him time to figure out how to give her the bad news.

  “I have ten years’ experience as a server.” She bit off the words. He was surprised he couldn’t hear her teeth clacking together. “I am a hard worker, rarely take sick days, and I’m willing to learn.”

  The silky material of her blouse glimmered in the subdued lighting as the slight swell of her breasts rose and fell with her breathing. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, drawing his attention to slim thighs sheathed in smooth fabric. He wondered what she looked like out of those dark clothes.

  He clamped down on his cogitating. He might be unreasonably attracted to her, but that was no reason to dither over a simple decision.

  “I am afraid there are no openings at this time.” He spoke gently, yet knew he sounded pompous, a defence mechanism against his unprofessional thoughts.

  “Of course there freakin’ isn’t. I imagine the asshole called here, too, didn’t he?”

  He couldn’t help it. He goggled at her. “Excuse me?”

  “Did Dane call your boss? Or did he tell you himself to keep an eye out for me? ‘If that bitch Jemma Hedge brings by a resumé, trash it.’ It’s the old boys’ network, isn’t it?” The nervous tension she’d been unable to hide transformed into shudders of rage.

  His surprise at her sudden attack curdled into anger. He had no idea what she was talking about but knew he didn’t deserve her hostility. He retreated into formality. “Your language is exceedingly inappropriate.”

  “I want to talk to him.” She stepped forward, eyes glittering. “I want to talk to your boss.”

  “You are.”

  That stopped her aggressive advance. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “The next time you apply for a job, I suggest you do your homework. I am Paul Almeida. I am not an employee. I am not the manager. I am the boss.”

  Her vibrating fury evaporated. She stared at him, those extraordinary eyes, defined by thick black liner, glowing out of her pale face. “Of course you are.” Her shoulders slumped. “You couldn’t have mentioned that before I made a fool of myself?”

  “It’s not my fault you screwed up. You made an assumption and it bit you in the ass.” Paul pressed his lips together. He was stooping to her level of vocabulary.

  He barely had enough time to register it was an attractive ass before the door slammed shut behind her.

  Jemma tottered a few steps down the sidewalk before ripping off her painful, unnaturally high heels.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Heading off in bare feet, she berated herself under her breath. A man walking toward her almost veered into oncoming traffic when he spotted her snarling face.

  How could she have been so dumb, so unprofessional, so weak?

  Because she’d panicked, that’s why.

  She’d known Paulo’s was out of her league, but she’d had to try. Ever since meeting the man she now knew to be Paul Almeida at Granville Island, the idea had percolated in the back of her brain. She didn’t want to exploit the attraction he obviously felt, but as the days stretched on without finding a new job, she realized she needed to use every advantage.

  And, if she were honest, she’d wanted to see him again. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had made her feel sexy and safe at the same time, made her want to know more about him, made her wonder what his kiss would be like. He had.

  What an idiot she’d been.

  Maitre d’! Damn the man! Would it have killed him to mention who he really was? If not when he’d intervened between her and Dane, at least when they’d met at Granville Island? Now, instead of calmly accepting the inevitable, she’d burned the bridge, as well as the roadways leading to it, by accusing Paul of collaborating with Dane. He had first-hand experience of Dane’s claim to jerk-dom, after all. How could she think he would believe anything Dane said?

  A sharp piece of gravel pierced the bottom of her foot and she swore. Once the profanity started flowing, she simply let go, ranting and railing as she limped to the bus stop.

  Dropping onto the graffiti-covered bench, she wriggled her swollen feet into her torturous shoes, muttering further obscenities under her breath.

  Rent was due tomorrow. She had enough to pay it, to buy groceries and fill Miriam’s prescriptions. But then her savings account would be wiped out.

  The bus pulled up and she clambered on.

  She was so screwed. What the hell was she going to do?

  Worry clawed at Paul’s stomach as he escaped the almost deserted dining room and took refuge in the kitchen, though the near silence there was more unnerving than the emptiness he’d left behind. He’d already cut staff for the night because the evening had been so slow, and there still wasn’t enough work to keep those remaining busy.

  He’d pinned a lot of hope on the news story. But it had yet to air, and repeated calls to Samantha had produced evasive answers as to when it might run.

  He could only hope it wouldn’t be too late.

  Pasting on a smile that, even to himself, felt slightly desperate, he returned to the
front as the second to last table showed signs of departing. He barely heard their effusive compliments. What did it matter if the food was perfect, the service excellent, the ambiance sophisticated, if no one came?

  A woman was the lone diner remaining. A tan trench-coat draped over the empty seat beside her, an attaché case resting on top, and her curly blonde hair glinted in the subdued lighting. She speared the last shrimp on her plate and placed it in her mouth, closing her eyes as she chewed. Crossing her silverware on the now empty dish, she leaned back and sighed in what Paul hoped was pleasure.

  Faintly annoyed Daniel was nowhere in sight, Paul began clearing her table. “How was your meal this evening?”

  “It was fabulous, thank you.” She patted her lips with her napkin. “The shrimp is absolutely spectacular.”

  “It’s an old Portuguese family recipe. I’ll tell my mother you enjoyed it.” He placed the soiled dishes on a dark wood buffet placed discreetly against the wall and returned.

  A buff-coloured folder lay on the table. She smoothed it in an oddly protective gesture, her head tilted to one side as she smiled at him.

  “Can I get you more coffee? Or perhaps a liqueur?”

  “No, thank you.” She fiddled with the folder, lining it up exactly with the edge of the table. Her eyes dropped to her hands, then raised to his again. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’m afraid I’m prolonging your evening, but I don’t want to leave yet.”

  His eyes scanned the empty restaurant as his mouth quirked in a rueful grin. “I seem to have a moment.” He settled into the chair across from her and reached out a hand. “Paul Almeida.”

  She shook it firmly. “Lainie Ziminski.”

  An anxious evening waiting for customers who never came had dragged him to the edge of weariness. He let his professionalism slip, enjoying her golden hair, her soft curves. The thought of midnight strands with vividly tinted bangs and a slender body with shapely limbs intruded. He shook it off. “So, Lainie, what do you do?”

  “I’m a television producer.” She said it as if daring him to contradict. “And I should tell you before we go much further I am here under false pretences.”