Chapter 8
Jillian
“LORI… I HAVE, LIKE, FIVE minutes and then I have to report for duty.” It was barbecue day, which only happened once a month, and proved to be the busiest. It seemed as though the entire impoverished population of College Station could smell the smoker and came running. I guess I couldn’t blame them. Chance was a magician in the kitchen.
My stomach had been doing funny things at the mere thought of tonight. The last barbecue day, my first time volunteering at The Community Cafe, was also the night I met Bennett Hanson. Or as I like to refer to him, Mr. Distraction. Because that’s exactly what he was.
“Jillian, are you even listening to me? God, what has gotten into you? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head in that wreck?”
Why was this girl my friend again? Oh right, politics. Her step-grandfather, which she acquired with her mother’s third husband and a couple million dollars a few years back, was waiting in the wings for some old geezer on the Supreme Court to die, and my father thought that connection would be beneficial. I was taught at an early age not to befriend anyone unless they had something to offer.
“I’m sorry, Lor, what were you saying?” I checked my makeup in the visor mirror, then checked the time. 4:52. Wow. I was early. That was a first.
“I was saying that Daddy Ron said we could go anywhere I wanted for Christmas break, so I thought about Aspen! Wouldn’t that be so awesome, celebrating your engagement? On the slopes? Together?”
Of course she would choose Aspen. As I opened my mouth to give an opinion I hadn’t yet formed, Mrs. Lowe pulled up next to me and waved. “Um, Lori, I have to scoot, it’s time for my meeting, but that is a very interesting idea and I will give it some thought.” Not. I hung up the phone and zipped it up in its black leather pouch, before tucking it under the seat.
Even as recently as a few months ago, the idea of celebrating my engagement to a man as rich and powerful as Gareth Johnson was all-consuming, every moment filled with planning and plotting to fulfill my destiny. But for some reason, these days it was having the opposite effect.
In fact, I found myself seeking out distractions to avoid thinking about it. I should have poured myself into my studies, or my sorority, but those things meant so little these days. In most cases, the distraction had a scruffy, auburn beard, piercing tan eyes, and lips the color of summer raspberries.
I shook all thoughts of Bennett Hanson away and trudged up to the back door of the cafe, refusing to be even one minute early on principle.
Things were relatively quiet and if I hadn’t smelled the barbecue, I may have questioned if I’d gotten my days mixed up. “Hello?” I called, but I was greeted by silence. I placed my purse in the office, but when I turned to grab my apron from the hook, it was gone.
“Where’s my apron?” Sure, there were other aprons, but I wanted my apron. I’d stocked the pockets with paper napkins and plastic utensils, anything to avoid having to run all over the place during the rush.
Water started running in the kitchen about that time, echoing down the hall. Peeking around the corner, I spotted Chance at the sink. Back home, I was famous for my temper. I learned from a young age, the louder I screamed, the more likely I was to get my way. But with the water on full blast, no one would be able to hear me no matter how big a fit I threw, so I stomped down the hall and right up to Chance. Tapping him on the shoulder, I squared my own. “Where is my apron?”
“Oh, is this the apron you’re screeching about?” Sure enough, strolling in from the dining room was none other than Bennett Hanson, wearing my apron. “So you say this is yours? I wasn’t aware we had assigned aprons.”
A slight, indecipherable smirk crept to his lips as he drank me in, head to toe. Had he been anyone else, he’d be walking away with my handprint across his face, but there was something about his eyes that spoke to me. They held an intensity I’d never been witness to before, almost like his gaze had hands, touching me in all the right places. I caught Chance’s eye. He was enjoying the show.
“Why are you even wearing an apron? Those are for the volunteers.” Hands on hips, I’m sure I more resembled a defiant toddler than a grown woman.
“Well, it seems as though you just answered your own question.” He started toward me, slowly untying the knot at his back. “But, please, please… ” He lifted the apron off over his head and presented it to me with a flourish. “I beg of you, Princess Jillian, forgive me for my transgression. I vow to never, ever don your green and turquoise apron again.” Princess Jillian?
Rolling my eyes, I snatched the apron from his outstretched hands and slipped it around my neck, not stopping to think about where it had just been until after the fact.
“You’re the reason hurricanes are named after people, Soldier.” I left the insolent man with that little barb and walked toward the back door.
Where am I going? Chance’s deep laugh pulled me back to reality. I turned and marched right up to the boulder of a man who may have once intimidated me, but now was just irritating me.
“Enjoy that, did you?” My eyebrows had long since disappeared into my hairline and I stood, one hip jutted out as I waited for his reply.
“Oh, honey. More than you know.”
Another roll of the eyes and a hair flip for good measure reminded me who I was and why I was there. I was a Walker, of the Georgia Walkers. And I’d be damned if I was going to stand around being insulted by a man elbow deep in soap bubbles.
Bennett whisked past us, in search of a different, unclaimed apron, and I couldn’t help but notice his piney, manly scent that lingered on the fabric of the apron. How, after only a few encounters, was I connecting that smell to the handsome, bearded derelict that just walked by? And why did it give my heart an unwelcome little jump? Princess Jillian indeed.