Bess
After tossing and turning for what felt like a million hours, I got up and walked a very disgruntled Brooks Bailey. My dog liked his rest. He’d been giving me dirty looks every time my knee made contact with his rib cage as I wrestled with the covers, and my emotions.
The moonlight lit my way down the hill to the lake. Brooks trailed along, sniffing, stopping to pee, rubbing up against my leg, welcoming a pat on the head. We didn’t need a leash. We had rescued each other and neither of us were going anywhere. Neither loyal owner nor adoring pet were in any position to ditch the life we’d made together. I was resurrected from the past; Brooks from the pound.
I was no stranger to insomnia. It had become a way of life for me in rehab without the aid of anything to lull my overactive brain to sleep, but this was a new brand of sleeplessness. A man had crawled beneath a layer of my skin, burrowed somewhere underneath my hardened shell of indifference, and I had no clue what to do with that.
Were there meetings for this sort of thing? If it were drugs or alcohol tempting me, I could call AJ or go to a meeting.
Ugh, AJ. What’s up with his popping by and bringing coffee?
But I didn’t have time to worry about him. Nor did I think there were support groups for dealing with being smitten with Lane Wrigley. Although, I was sure there was a very long string of us—women—probably each and every one of us a random, lowly hotel employee wishing and praying that he would take more than just a professional interest in us.
Coming to a stop, I settled on an old tree log about thirty feet from the stream and allowed the soothing sound of the rippling water to wash over me. It was chilly out today, and even tucked into an old sweatshirt with Sherpa-lined boots on my feet, a chill traveled up my spine. I felt coarse hair brush along my cheek as I lowered my head into my hands, and sensed my faithful friend sit down beside me.
At twenty-five and unattached, it wasn’t unusual that I was having these feelings—an inappropriate attraction to a man with power and money at work. After all, there was real blood running through my veins. My core heated at just the thought of the man and his ridiculously out-of-place messy black hair. And like that, my boots felt way too hot and my sweatshirt confining.
Tilting my head to the side, I leaned my cheek on my dog’s head and whispered my secrets in his ear. I couldn’t even say them out loud to an animal.
“Ugh, Brooks, why didn’t I think about this when I left rehab? Making a life beyond this meager existence? A life with love and men and sex?”
A lone tear made its way down my cheek, disappearing in black fur, but Brooks didn’t have any answers for me.
“It’s no biggie, Brooksie. He’ll be gone tomorrow, and we’ll be back to life as we know it. Just you and me and nobody else,” I said, more for my own peace of mind as I got up and walked home.
Feeling very much like my former hungover, tired, and strung-out self, I entered the WildFlower already dressed in my waitress uniform. In no mood to face May or anyone else who knew about my dinner meeting, I hurried to the kitchen and ducked my head to avoid chitchat with any of the other employees, certain the rumor mill was alive and well.
They were all staring at me.
Rushing into the kitchen, wishing for a quiet cup of joe and a buttery scone with Ernesto, I ran smack into a hard wall. A wall that went by the name Lane Wrigley, standing front and center in the middle of the kitchen, all wrapped up tight in a suit and tie with a big grin on his face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wrigley,” I muttered. Unsettled, I straightened my clothes and smoothed my hair from our collision, my body still burning from the briefest moment of contact. My emotions were a mangled car in a five-car pile-up or worse.
“It’s Lane, and no worries,” he said with playfulness flitting through his blue eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was actually getting ready to leave and wanted to thank you for your time.”
This was yet another version of Lane Wrigley, neither the ice-cold, all-business man I first saw at breakfast two days ago, nor the warm but consummate professional I had dinner with, but a more fun version disguised in another perfectly pressed suit.
“Um, it was nothing.” I waved my hand in the air while backing up a few inches, trying hard not to breathe in the masculine scent surrounding me. It was a high I didn’t think I could afford to enjoy.
Already turning and heading through the kitchen door toward freedom—the dining area—I skidded to a halt when Ernesto called out, “Um, Miss Bess, the restaurant isn’t busy at all. Why don’t you take a few of my fresh treats and coffee in the back for you and Mr. Wrigley? He can learn more about the hotel and how we operate in the restaurant.” He motioned toward the overflowing baking sheets on the counter filled with fresh muffins, elaborately iced pastries, and mouth-watering scones.
“He probably doesn’t have time for that, Ern, but thanks,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat and knowing they were probably a bright shade of red, deeper than the cranberry filling oozing from the Danishes lining the baking sheet.
“Actually, I do,” Lane said. “I had to make some changes to my travel plans, so I’m flying a private charter home. They can leave when I want, and a pastry sounds great.” He walked toward the large tray of goodies set on the stainless counter, pretending to examine the sweets, but held my gaze in his peripheral vision.
“Good!” my meddling coworker interjected, then shoved a plate at Lane and me, instructing, “Take what you want and go.”
So, with a scone and a to-go cup of coffee in my hand, I led Lane back to the break room. I didn’t dare take a whiff of the cinnamon Danish in front of me for fear that Lane’s heady scent would fill my senses instead.
“Well, this is an unexpected surprise,” he said as he sat down at the large round table in the center of the room. He pulled out another seat and insisted, “Here, this one is for you.”
“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” I said. “They’re paying me to wait tables.” I took a quick sip of my coffee as I stood there, uncertain what I should do.
Lane took a deep swallow of his coffee and shook his head. “Ah, that’s some good coffee. Come on, I don’t bite. Sit.”
I did, setting my plate in front of me, unsure of where my appetite flew away to. The only hunger I felt was for the man in front of me. Watching his mouth, staring at him taking a large bite of his blueberry muffin, my own mouth watered, and it wasn’t because of the fluffy pastry.
When he finished chewing, he leaned in. “You’re still working right now, Bess, so relax. We’ll call this business—again.” He took another bite and added, “Shit, this is good! I haven’t had one of these in a long time. I wonder where I can get something like this in South Beach?”
I let out a little laugh. “I don’t know much about South Beach, but I’m pretty sure that’s where the South Beach diet originated. I’m also pretty sure you can’t eat sugar-filled, butter-laden muffins on that diet.”
“I guess not. Maybe I’ll have to come back here for another one soon,” he said with a smirk.
“Umm, not sure a muffin is reason enough to come back here,” I said as I pinched off a tiny nibble of my own treat.
“Well, it would only be one of them, although I may have to wait until spring. This weather here, it leaves a lot to be desired,” he said and for a moment, he got a faraway look in his eyes, as if he went somewhere else for a second or two. The pain—so palpable—I’d sensed a few days before when I’d seated him at the restaurant, seemed to ice over the bright blue of his eyes, dimming them for a moment. And then, just like that, his eyes sharpened and focused on me, exuding warmth again.
“I guess I’m just used to it,” I said with a shrug. “What’s the temp now at home for you?”
Weather is a safe subject, unlike him coming back to the WildFlower.
“Gorgeous, warm, but not stifling. You should come see for yourself.” He finished his muffin, then drained his coffee cup.
I had to remind myself to breathe. “I’m not sure that’s in my budget for right now, but someday, maybe I will.” My skin was prickly with nerves at what he was suggesting, itchy with how much I actually wanted to do that. Visit Florida . . . and see him again.
Taking the last few sips of my own coffee, I stood up and said, “I’m going to get back to work now. I mean, my actual job, but this has been really nice of you to take the time to meet me and get to know me. I’m sure management appreciates it.” Then I stuck out my hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wrigley.”
“Once again, it’s Lane,” he said, “and I really appreciate it.” But he didn’t shake my hand. Grasping my fingers with his larger ones, he brought my hand to his lips and placed a light kiss right above my knuckles, his lips lingering and torturing my senses.
“Umm, well, it’s been a pleasure doing this.” I stumbled over my words, working my hand free and waving it around since I had no freaking clue what else to do with it.
“No, the pleasure’s been all mine. Meeting you hasn’t felt like work at all.”
The spot where his lips had made contact tingled; the small patch of skin, on the bone and near a vein, must have been singed or burned. I expected to look at my hand and find a hole.
“’Bye, Lane,” I said, rushing out as fast as I could.
Does he kiss all hotel employees on the hand?
I couldn’t wait to leave work that day. Despite my best intentions, I’d fueled the employee gossip mill, a position I didn’t like holding and wanted to desperately shed. As I was hightailing it out of the building, Maddie stopped me again.
Shit.
Standing in front of me with a gift-wrapped box blocking half her face, she called, “Bess, one sec!”
Seriously, what now?
I stopped moving but didn’t speak.
“Thank you so much for taking one for the team and graciously meeting Mr. Wrigley. Apparently the hotel got the deal with him, and management is tickled,” she said while bopping back and forth from foot to foot in her sensible flats.
“No thanks needed. I did it, and Mr. Wrigley already came to thank me in person, as I’m sure you heard, so the whole thing can be put to bed now. I gotta go,” I said as I started moving down the hallway, leaving in my ugly work clothes again.
“Wait!” Maddie called for me again.
I turned on my heel and looked at her with one eyebrow arched.
“This. This is for you,” she said while shoving the gift toward me.
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” I shrugged and turned on my heel for the second time.
“Bess! It’s not from me,” Maddie yelled.
This got my attention.
“Who’s it from?” I asked as I whipped back around, afraid of what she might say.
“Mr. Wrigley, of course.”
“Of course,” I repeated, grabbing the package and walking straight to my car, not stopping to say hello to anyone else. Then I threw it—not gently—into the trunk, where it taunted me the whole drive home.