Chapter 1 – The Middle-of-Nowhere Virginia
Maya –
“You sure you’ve never waited tables before?”
I look up at Maggie as I balance a plate on my forearm, another in the same hand, and pick up a third in the other. How do I answer without sounding like an entitled bitch?
“No. Just eaten out a lot I guess.”
Maybe that will appease her. It’s not a total lie. I have eaten out a lot, but it was either at my parents’ Country Club or five-star restaurants. And never would I tell the full truth, that I’ve been served my entire life at the house I grew up in.
“Well, you’re a natural. I didn’t know what to think when Addy gave you a job with no interview and not knowin’ your skills. That’s so Addy. To be honest, I was plain pickin’ mad I didn’t have a say in who was gonna help in my kitchen. You’re lucky you’re a natural. I know it’s hard to see, but I’m not usually so good-natured about things.”
I try not to let my eyes widen in surprise, disbelief or, when you get right down to it, fear. From the moment I met Maggie, I’ve done my best to please her. It’s a good thing I paid attention to how I was served all those years and enjoyed working in the kitchen with our cook. Maggie’s downright scary. I accidentally spilled a bowl of soup last week and I thought she was going to come undone. She didn’t care one bit that I burned my hand or offered to clean it up immediately.
I do my thing, get in and out of her kitchen as fast as I can, and smile every chance I get in hopes she doesn’t snap at me.
“Everyone’s been great to work with,” I tell her the truth, or mostly the truth. I’ve been here a while now, and I’ve learned how to best work with Maggie—that being to always agree with her, stay out of her way, and for the love of all things holy, don’t spill a drop of anything on her floor. The soup and I learned that the hard way.
With that, I swiftly exit her kitchen for the tasting room. It’s best to leave Maggie to her work, not chat too much, and never spill.
“Your meals,” I announce as I approach each guest from their left. This is a lesson learned as well—my mother would have a fit if we were served from the right. I guess one learns a lot about waiting tables when their help has been chastised in front of them their entire lives.
I’ve never thought about waiting tables, but I do enjoy it. Other than the rare difficult customer, everyone is pretty laid back. I realized this after a few weeks of work. Customers come for the environment and wine, wanting a chance to take a break from their hectic lives. This is something I’m not accustomed to, but during my short time here, I’ve mastered the art of appreciating it. Relaxing long enough to sit and enjoy life isn’t something I’ve ever been allowed to do. But if there was ever an environment to encourage it, it’s here.
The middle-of-nowhere Virginia where no one knows me has proven to be the perfect place to be. There are no preconceived notions that I’m an entitled bitch. Here, I get to be me, and after all this time juggling work between Whitetail and Rolling Hills Ranch, I’ve stayed tucked deep in the woods in my bungalow, as Addy calls it, and I’ve almost stopped looking over my shoulder. Almost.
There are days I find myself going hours without scanning my surroundings for anyone familiar, their people, or especially him. I never worry about my mom, though. She’d never bother herself with looking for me. She’d say she’s too busy with her philanthropies—pretending to solve the world’s issues.
But I think I’m good. I’ve found a little slice of heaven an hour outside of the Capitol. After driving far enough south, I found a part-time opening at an assisted living center. Even though I’m a physical therapist who graduated at the top of her class, I took a job as a part-time activities director.
It’s been an experience, to say the least. I can’t practice physical therapy in Virginia since I’m not licensed here yet and I hesitate starting that process. I’m worried I can be tracked somehow. I’m sure that’s the first thing they’ll be looking for since it was my only source of income. I spoke to the director about a possible position in the future, as the therapist on staff is slated to leave early next year, but I’m still apprehensive. I’ve done everything I can do to avoid a paper trail. The position hasn’t been promised to me, but they said they’d see how I interact with clients since they tend to be persnickety. The pay sucks, but for now I’m content with working hard to make their elderly clients like me.
When I left, I had no idea how to create a new identity—who does? It’s risky enough being lawfully employed, but it was a risk I had to take. I needed a job, but applying for my PT license in a new state would be pushing it.
My experience with seniors was nil, zippo, zilch. Both sets of my grandparents are snooty. They never baked cookies with us, took us to the zoo, or even had us for sleepovers. Nope, they were more of the children should be seen and not heard mentality. But I’ve bullshitted my way at the Ranch, just like I have here at Whitetail.
I had to do my research on activities for seniors. I’m actually surprised I even got the job, but I think I sealed the deal when I BS’d my way through the questions about activity and exercise during the interview. Health is what I know, so I went with it. I got the position on the spot.
Landing this job at Whitetail was a different story. When I met with Addy to rent her bungalow, I thought she handed me a job out of sheer pity. That was not a fun day for me. Pity is something I’ve been taught to loathe. One can pity others all the livelong day, but to be pitied is a sign of weakness.
When Addy offered me a job, she had no idea how badly I needed out of my hellhole of a sleazy motel room. Not only was it the dirtiest place I’d ever experienced, but it was seriously scary and completely unsafe. I slid the dresser in front of the door every night, just in case. But what I’ve learned over the last month and a half is Addy didn’t pity me that day, she offered me pure kindness.
Kindness isn’t something I’m accustomed to.
I smile at the guests as they seem happy with their food and quickly go to clear two tables who have finished eating. Another lesson learned from my mother—no one wants to look at a dirty dish at their place setting.
After dropping them in the kitchen, I go to the bar to wash glasses and find Evan doing inventory.
“Maya, Maya, Maya. When are you going to come to poker night? You’re starting to give us a complex, you know.” When I look up, Evan is leaning back against the bar with his arms crossed and has a smirk on his face.
Evan towers over me, but he’s young. At twenty-four, he’s four years younger than me. He’s smart, self-assured, and good at his job as the tasting room manager. He’s my boss. I’d never say this to his face because I know guys hate it, but he’s nothing but pure cute. He oozes cuteness. He’s like my little brother who I hug just to annoy him, because I can’t help it. When Evan smiles, he’s off the scales adorable, and I want to ruffle his messy hair.
I shake my head and look back to my task, holding a glass up to the light to make sure there aren’t any water spots. “I told you, I don’t know how to play poker. I’d just slow the game down, and everyone would be frustrated but wouldn’t say anything because they’re too nice. I’d be a bother and I hate being a bother.”
“Mary didn’t know how to play and we taught her. Not knowing how to play isn’t an excuse. Maggie has an excuse, she…” He pauses and tips his head with a grimace. “Well, she’s Maggie. Claire would have to bring her kids, they’d tear down the Ordinary for sure. You have no excuse. It’s on a Monday, so you’re not working here, and you’re not leading Bingo because all the old codgers are asleep by the time we start. You’re coming next week.”
“We’ll see.” I smile as I lie. Everyone here is so nice, but I need to keep a healthy distance. Friends tend to want to know things about you. I need to be friendly, but I do not need friends. So far, I’ve managed to toe this line carefully, although the longer I work at both the Ranch and here, it’s proving difficult.
Damn, people are nice out here in the middle of nowhere. Who knew?
“I’m not taking no for an answer again. After Mary cut your hair, she all but gave me the girlfriend warning that if I didn’t get you to poker, I’d pay the price. If for no other reason, you need to do me this favor so I can score points with my new girlfriend.”
After going months without a trim, I mentioned in passing to Addy that I needed a haircut. She made me an appointment with her girl, Mary. Little did I know they were best friends or that Mary and Evan just started dating. I swear, this group is woven so tight, I’ve never seen anything like it. Bev is so sweet it actually hurts to turn her down when she invites me to dinner, poker, or for a glass of wine at sunset when she knows I’m getting off work.
But no, I need distance. I need it like my life depends on it, because it does. It’s already hard enough to keep my story straight. Even Addy, who in the beginning gave me my space, has started working her way into my heart by talking about how she lost her mom to cancer, how she came to live here in the middle of nowhere, and how her employees became her new family. There are days where I just can’t take it, not because she’s trying to find things out about me, but because I’m jealous. Inside, I’m green with envy because I’ve never had what she has, even though I lived under my parents’ roof until the day I left.
These people even rallied around Addy like a family should after some man from her father’s past came after her, holding her at gunpoint in her own vineyard. She’s been through so much. I can’t say I’ve ever had that kind of support.
Evan shoots me his boyish grin that I’m sure won Mary over in a heartbeat. “You’re not going to disappoint my new girlfriend, are you? I mean, you wouldn’t let me down like that, right?”
“I don’t know—” I start, hoping to put him off yet again, wondering how creative I’ll have to get, when my attention is drawn to the door. My breath catches.
It’s him.
He’s been coming in every day for a while now. When the lunch hour hits or when we’re near on closing at six, he gets a sandwich, soup, or sometimes both. And he always orders more than one dessert—usually two or three, which I find strange. But I take his order—one that never includes a single fruit or vegetable—and submit it to Maggie. I make every excuse I can think of to clean up the storage room or kitchen so I don’t have to deliver his to-go order.
This is because he’s probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Rich, dark-brown hair with hints of deep gold, it looks as if he spends his days lounging on the beach, even though I doubt this is true. He doesn’t look like the lounging kind of guy. He’s big, really big, and his presence commands attention, even though I can tell he wants none of it. Every time I’ve seen him enter the tasting room, his eyes never wander and he never smiles, trying not to draw attention to himself, even though his efforts are a lost cause.
His expression always remains stoic and apathetic, but underneath his features are strong, rigid, and masculine. His medium complexion is in stark contrast to his eyes—so bright blue, the first time I looked into them, they were blinding.
Blinding, but also wounded.
I don’t question the fact there’s pain hidden there, because I recognize it. I’ve seen it in the mirror for a while. Only recently have I noticed it fading in my own eyes—but still, it’s there.
Even if I didn’t notice his inner pain, it’s plain to see he’s been wounded physically. As big as he is, he moves gingerly, as his arm is casted and in a sling that’s wrapped tight to his body with a wedge under his arm. His face looks better, but the first time I saw him, he was bruised and battered in a way that matched his eyes.
All of this, his beauty mixed with his injuries, only fuels my fascination.
There’s obviously something wrong with me.
Whenever he comes in, he strides straight to the bar, never makes small talk or asks for the daily specials. He orders and waits, then he pays and leaves. If I’m here long enough, I see it happen twice a day.
Right after I take his order, I resume spying on him from the backroom. And I’ve spied enough that, even to myself, I’m reaching creeper status.
Ugh. Creepers are weird and I’m becoming one.
Since he’s already made it halfway across the tasting room, I do what I’ve done for weeks, and prepare to spy on him.
Before I can hide, Evan’s phone rings. He looks at the screen and beats me to the punch, leaving for the back room as he mutters, “It’s Mary. Do me a favor and hold down the fort.”
Shit. I’ve never been alone with him.
When I turn around, there he is, looking at me with his perfectly-beautiful, anguished blue eyes.
I swallow and do the one thing my mother instilled in me more than anything else—be composed. I take a breath and go to him, the bar being the only thing separating me from the target of my inner creeper. “May I help you?”
His brows pull together and my eyes go directly to the scar on his temple. Red, angry, and still inflamed, it’s clear to see he’s recently had stitches. This, too, fascinates me.
His voice comes at me strong and deep, even if a bit harshly. “The Monte Cristo with chips, potato soup, and whatever desserts she has, one of each.”
The Monte Cristo and potato soup? Never mind the dessert order, there’s so much there that bothers me. I’ve spied on him ordering almost every day I’ve worked for the past few weeks, and in his condition, his body needs healthier foods to heal.
For the first time ever, I muster up the courage to do more than simply take his order. “Would you like to hear today’s specials?”
His answer comes quick and clear. “No.”
Doing everything I can to collect my courage, I push, “Are you sure? Maggie’s worked really hard on them. Her new sandwich is great.”
He couldn’t be any clearer when he answers firmly, “I’m sure.”
What the hell. I’m on a roll, so I keep on as if he invited me to. “It’s a Mediterranean wrap. Lean cut turkey, stacked with romaine, English cucumbers, heirloom tomatoes, red onion, and for a bit of salt, Kalamata olives. She even added a spread of roasted red pepper hummus. It’s delicious. I had it yesterday.”
This time he tips his head and frowns in a way I know he finds me ludicrous. “No. I want the Monte Cristo.”
Well then.
I put another smile on my face and try again to add some color to his diet and continue with the specials. “Our soup of the day is colorful minestrone.”
“Pay attention.” His face hardens, and if he didn’t sound serious before, he sure does now. “The Monte Cristo. The colorless potato soup, and it better be a bowl, not a cup. Desserts, one of everything she’s got. That’s it.”
Only because it’s my job, I feel safe in offering, “Would you like a side salad with that?”
He loses his frown when his brows fly up, his beautiful blue eyes going big. “Are you kidding?”
He’s close to losing his patience, but I know for a fact his body will heal faster if it has the proper vitamins and nutrients. “The organic seasonal fruit medley?”
And if he didn’t mean it before, there’s no question now when he growls at me, “No!”
Even though I’m disappointed and a bit freaked at his rumbling voice, I can’t deny, having a conversation with him has been exciting. I scribble down his order and give myself one more opportunity to appreciate his now-frustrated blue eyes. That’s when I ask, even though I know, but I really like to hear him say it, “A name for the order?”
“Grady.”
I love his name. Grady is casual, comfortable, and friendly, even though its owner is anything but. Still, I love it because every name in my family is snooty, stick-up-the-ass formal, just like my family, so very unlike the mysterious-but-wounded, blue-eyed Grady.
“I’ll give this to Maggie. You can have a seat while you wait.”
He lets out a sigh and shakes his head before turning. I’m not quite sure, but I think he lets out a string of curse words as he moves gingerly to the tables. Like every day, this makes me wonder what type of accident he was in and what his physician has him doing for rehabilitation.
I go to the kitchen and hand Maggie his order. As usual, she quizzes me, making sure I got the order right. “A Monte with chips, bowl of potato, and one of every dessert. That right?”
I sigh, wishing I could’ve talked him into some vegetables that offer anti-inflammatory benefits to help with his injuries, and reply, “Yep. That’s it.”
I decide to revert back to my creeper status, pronto, and let someone else deliver his order. As exciting as it was talking to Grady, I don’t want to push it.
Ugh. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I’m not just a creeper, but a scaredy-cat creeper.