Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
I didn’t have it in me to fight anymore.
So I said, “Marconi Union.”
“Why are you listening to it?”
“It’s ambient. It’s relaxing.”
“Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors is relaxing. Ray Lamontagne’s anything is relaxing. Joni Mitchell, Jack Johnson, James Taylor are relaxing. Miles Davis and Billie Holiday are relaxing. If you gotta go there, Enya is relaxing. Nick Drake is the essence of relaxing.”
Wow, I was impressed with his knowledge of music.
“This is just weird,” he concluded.
“I like it,” I pointed out the obvious.
At that, he did something very, very bad.
He smiled.
No flirting with it, it was full-out this time.
Oh man.
I was screwed.
“I like your friend,” he said.
“Don’t let her fool you, she’s crazier than me. She just hides it better.”
He kept smiling.
Shit.
“Listen, Cap—” I started.
“I’ll be here tomorrow, six thirty, to pick you up. I don’t mess around when it comes to food. So wear something nice.”
My mind immediately split between my closet and my bank account, the one side telling me it contained nothing that would do for a date with Julien “Cap” Jackson, the other side telling me I didn’t have enough to splurge on a new dress (and shoes…and handbag).
I corralled my mind’s wayward ways and noted, “I didn’t say yes to the date.”
“No woman stares at a man’s hand like you stared at mine when she doesn’t want that hand doing something to her.”
Oh my God!
“You weren’t even looking at me.”
“I’d adjusted the side mirror so I could see you.”
Damned technology making side mirrors adjustable with interior buttons clever PI guys could use so they could watch you while you didn’t know they were doing it.
“That’s sneaky,” I announced.
“It’s part of my job.”
Huh.
“You’re very full of yourself,” I stated.
“Yeah, you said that already. Six thirty.”
“Cap—”
He bent to put his face in my face at the same time his free hand slid up my neck to cup my jaw.
I smelled him again, this time with that beautiful hand on me, and I stilled in silent, expectant anticipation.
I thought he might kiss me.
But he didn’t, and idiotically, I was disappointed about that.
Instead, he said, “And no woman, who doesn’t want a man in her bedroom, lets him break into her house and then doesn’t do dick about him being in her bedroom.”
Busted!
“Rachel. Six thirty. Dinner. And the story behind that shit on your wall.” He said this like a warning.
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.”
“I’m not letting you make it your business.”
I shivered as he slid his fingers along my jaw, his touch light and titillating, doing this as he took it away.
Also doing it as he said, “We’ll see.”
The bed moved when he got up.
And then, as silently as he showed, he was gone.
FOUR
THE SURF CLUB
The next morning, I swung into the back employee entrance of The Surf Club, only five minutes late for my shift.
A personal best.
To lift my mood after a wild, emotional night, I’d gone devil-may-care with a Parisian circa-1960s flair with my outfit. Black capris that had a cigarette pant feel with a side zipper and a high waist that rose to my lower ribs. Black and white striped, boatneck, long-sleeved top that was cropped to just under my breasts. Black ballet flats.
All I was missing was the beret.
Instead, I’d wrapped the black, pink, red and white Alexander McQueen scarf I’d scored on an online resell site, backwards kerchief style around my hair, tied just above my forehead in a neat little knot. My blonde hair was twisted and pinned at the back, the floof of its curls sticking out of the top of the wrap.
I’d decided to channel my Lucy vibe that day. After the successful, yet madcap night I’d had, it seemed apropos.
I went straight to my employee locker, stowed my purse and made my selection from the many different colored server aprons I had hanging there (I picked hot pink to go with the pink in the scarf). I tied it around my waist.
I then walked through the tiny kitchen and called a hello to Lucia, our cook.
She was prepping for the lunch crowd, and she could be intense (think Carmy from The Bear, except female, and she didn’t use tweezers to dress any of her dishes, though she did mumble to herself, “needs more acid” a lot). Therefore, she didn’t even look up at me.
This was not unusual, so I didn’t take offense.
Shortly after, (our kitchen wasn’t very big, though it was meticulously clean and tidy, by the edict of Lucia), I hit the bar area of the main room.
The Surf Club was neither for surfers (no surprise, considering Phoenix was landlocked) or a club. It also didn’t have surfer décor. In fact, I had no idea why Tito named it The Surf Club, except he was Tito, and if you knew Tito, you’d know this wasn’t uncharacteristic.
The bulk of the main room was chaotic.