Chapter Two
Teague
“I don’t want to quit the coffee shop,” I say to Harper as she lies on my bed and watches me do a quick wardrobe change. Like the best friend she is, she rushed me back to our rented guesthouse when our shift ended so I could ditch my coffee shop uniform and get to Gabrielle Gallagher’s office by noon. Am I crazy to do this? Probably. But a bigger paycheck is a killer motivator.
For the first time in my life I’m completely self-sufficient, and I want to keep it that way. I told myself when I left home I would sink or swim on my own from there on out. No safety net. No more being taken care of and sheltered. No running home if things got tough.
The extra cash flow also means I can take more travel writing courses. Writing is hard, but fun, and I want to be good at it. So the more I can educate myself, the better my chances of selling a story and achieving what I really dream of doing.
“I love working with you,” I continue. “So I’m hoping I can stay on to open in the mornings and leave at eight forty-five. Plus, I don’t trust Ms. Gallagher not to fire me for no other reason than I wore the wrong shirt.”
Harper pushes up to her knees from her stomach. “Speaking of shirts, you’ve got yours on backward.”
I look down and find that yes, my one and only silk blouse is facing the wrong way. No wonder it felt so uncomfortable.
“Hey, don’t be nervous,” Harper says, lifting the shirt over my head when my attempt to pull my arms out of the short sleeves and twist the blouse around fails.
“I’m not nervous. I’m…”
“Too nice,” Harper finishes with a mixture of affection and impatience in her voice. “You always put other people before yourself, which, don’t get me wrong, is admirable, but it’s not a flaw to say no sometimes.”
“I—”
“Not to me, of course. Don’t think these new work hours mean you can beg out of going out this weekend. Fuck no.”
She knows me so well. It’s not that I don’t want to go out. It’s that it’s out of my comfort zone. I keep telling myself being in a new place where no one knows my name means I can let go of my self-imposed constraints and stop worrying about what other people think, but easier said than done. My inexperience has a way of showing itself when I least want it to.
“No worries. I have a feeling I may actually need a drink by Friday.” I tuck my blouse into my black pants. Slide my feet into a pair of two-inch black pumps.
“Do not take any of her shit,” Harper orders. “There are other jobs out there.” She scans my outfit from shoes to shirt, then reconnects with my eyes. “Capiche?”
Easy for her to say.
Harper has more money than she’ll ever be able to spend in her lifetime. She’s the youngest of three, and her father is one of the richest businessmen in America. He dotes on his only daughter, but he does expect her to work, preferably for him. She hates that idea and is set on making something of herself once she figures out the what and how. In the meantime, she likes making coffee so she has something to keep her busy along with the swim lessons she gives. She donates her coffee paychecks to a different charity each month, and her hourly teaching fee goes right back into things like medals and swim equipment for her students.
Did I mention our guesthouse is in Beverly Hills and her aunt and uncle own the property? This makes my rent less than most other properties this nice, but still significantly more than I’d pay back home. And paying my own way is at the top of my independence list. It’s something I need to do to prove to myself I can stand on my own two feet.
“I think I did pretty well with her,” I tell Harper. “And I don’t plan to take any crap.” Mostly.
“The Gallaghers are super wealthy and travel in the same circles as my parents. I think my dad has done some business with Mr. Gallagher, and I’m sure my mom has been to some of the same charity luncheons as Gabrielle. But no matter how rich you are, you still need to be nice to people.” Harper plops down on the edge of my bed and leans back onto her elbows. “She actually planned my uncle’s sister’s daughter’s wedding. It was pretty fan-fucking-tastic.”
“You’ve met her then?”
“From afar. Since I wasn’t directly related I didn’t rank high enough for actual conversation. Wait. I take that back. She did say something to me. She asked if I spoke to my grandmother with this mouth.” Harper grins. “I’m pretty sure her question came after I said some crude things about the best man. In my defense, the man was so hot I almost had an orgasm just from looking at him.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. If he weren’t married he would have seriously spent the night fending off horny women.”
I laugh, and Harper sees right through me. She knows I’ve never been horny like that.
“Friday night,” she says in the way that tells me she will not be happy until I experience uncontrollable horniness.
I nod, give her a hug, and say, “See you later.”
Even though I’ve taken a job for a woman I’m not sure I like, I’m pretty excited about it. My friends and I pretended to be brides more than once growing up, and I dressed up as a bride for two Halloweens in a row. I’m fascinated by weddings and everything that goes into them. I missed most of the planning for my older sister Vanessa’s wedding while away at school, but I talked to her on the phone all the time. My older brother, Luke, eloped, but he and my sister-in-law said their intimate wedding was perfect. And my other sister, Erin, is planning a destination wedding to Hawaii in September.
Maybe this job will help with the eventual planning of my own wedding one day.
“Hey, Briggs,” I say, walking into the lobby of my new workplace. If nothing else, getting to see his warm, smiling face every day will give me some peace of mind.
“Teague, what are you doing back so soon?” He eyes me up and down like he almost doesn’t recognize me out of my coffee clothes.
“You’re looking at Gabrielle Gallagher’s new assistant.”
He stands and moves around his desk to pull me into a hug. “Congratulations.” He takes a step back. “I didn’t know you were looking for a new job.”
“I wasn’t. Not a job like this, anyway.”
“You tell Ms. Gallagher I said to treat you right.”
“Did you tell that to her last assistant on her first day?” Because it didn’t work.
He turns another smile my way as he walks back to his seat. “I didn’t know her last assistant on her first day. Didn’t know her on her last day, either.”
“Her loss,” I say with a wave. I’ve only got a minute to get upstairs and be on time.
When I walk into the air-conditioned office, it’s eerily quiet. I take a quick glance around before moving to my sleek white desk and putting my purse in the small file cabinet on the left. I try out the modern white chair with a black seat cushion and find it comfortable. A computer, calendar, pencil holder with black-and-white-striped pencils, and telephone are perfectly placed on top of the desk like it’s been staged. The only thing to indicate I’ve been expected is a file folder with my name typed on the front. I open it to find paperwork I need to fill out and sign—including a confidentiality agreement.
“Miss Watters,” Ms. Gallagher calls impatiently from her office, startling me enough that I drop the piece of paper in my hand.
I jump to my feet and hurry to respond face-to-face. “Hi, Ms. Gallagher. I’m here.”
She looks at me like no shit before she motions for me to take a seat in the chair across from her.
“I was just looking through the file you left on my desk.”
“I need you to finalize the menu and flowers for the Hastings wedding,” she says with impatience, her focus back on her desk, “and order fifty of the out-of-town welcome bags you picked up earlier. I want them delivered to the Hastings residence in one month. Madison is my goddaughter, and I don’t want her worried about anything.”
Madison must be the bride-to-be I saw earlier. “Okay.”
“There are menu cards for the Smith wedding on the shared computer drive that need to be emailed to the printer and ready for pickup by Friday. Transportation agreements are also on the drive. Please read them and double-check dates, times, and spelling.” She looks up at me. “Are you a college graduate, Miss Watters?”
“Yes.”
She lets out a breath of relief.
“And please call me Teague.”
She frowns at my request. I’ve never been called anything but Teague. Or TW. My college friends started the initials thing freshman year, and it stuck. Kinney, short for McKinney, stuck with Harper.
“That’s my first name, and I prefer it to Miss Watters.” I’m about to ask what I should call her—Gabby, GG, Smiley Face?—when she bares her perfectly white teeth enough to let me know she’ll call me whatever she wants.
“Next week is the launch of my wedding stationery line. Mindy will fill you in on what needs to be done there.”
“Mindy?”
“You met her this morning.” Not really, but okay. “She and Leah are part of the team here. Kristen heads our Seattle office.” She hands me a file folder. “Familiarize yourself with the language I’d like you to use when speaking about our consulting services. Inside there you’ll also find signed vendor contracts that need to be filed.”
“Got it.”
She looks at me skeptically, like I might forget what she’s telling me. My math brain helps me to organize things in my head and my memory has always been excellent, so I’m down with everything she’s just spewed at me.
“Madison needs assistance with her undergarments. I told her you’d meet her at three o’clock today.” She gives me a once-over. “At the same time I suggest you shop for new work attire.”
I look down at myself, trying not to let her insult bother me. What’s wrong with my black pants and peach-colored blouse? I’ll admit I’m not the most stylish dresser, but there’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.
It’s also the best I’ve got. I’ll raid Harper’s closet tonight to find a few things to wear until I can afford some new clothes. I refuse to let Ms. Gallagher’s judginess spur me into action I’m not comfortable with.
“Anything else?” I ask, with maybe a hint of snark. I’m not proud of my tone, but my defenses are up.
“Yes, I don’t accept sloppy work, tardiness, or insubordination. I’ve established a certain reputation here, and I won’t have it compromised. Do as I say, when I say it, and you’ll keep your job.”
As far as pep talks go, that’s a real winner. Standing to go back to my desk, I try to imagine Ms. Gallagher with a nicer personality and fail.
…
“Cheers!” Harper says Friday night, clinking shot glasses with me. It’s our second one, and I’m feeling a buzz already. I worked nonstop today and didn’t have time for lunch, so I’m in desperate need of food. The entire week has been insane. Long hours, crazy expectations (sure, my math degree makes me the perfect person to play mediator between a bride and mom trying to agree on a seating chart), and personal errands for Gabrielle.
The tequila burns the inside of my chest, and I suck in my cheeks as we slam our glasses down on the table.
Harper makes a popping sound with her lips, grabbing the attention of a cute guy passing by. He stops to smile at her. She looks at him with interest in her dark brown eyes, her full lips slightly parted.
“Hi,” he says, “buy you another?”
Yes, it’s that easy for her.
Harp pats the spot beside her in invitation. I inwardly smile. We don’t buy any of our drinks because Harper’s uncle is one of the owners of this restaurant.
Cute Guy slides into the booth, we introduce ourselves over the music and raised voices in the packed space, and as per usual, Harper commands most of the attention without even trying. Which gives me time to relax now that she’s occupied and not on the hunt for a dirty and sweet talker to get inside my head before I do.
“Hey, sorry for the delay,” our waitress, Kym, says, stopping for a moment at our table, her tray full of food and drinks. “One of our servers didn’t show up so I’m scrambling.”
“No worries,” I say. “Would it help if I went to the bar and grabbed our order?”
“That would be insanely helpful. Thanks, Teague.”
“I can go,” Harper says, ready to push Evan, no, Lee, no, dang it, I forgot his name, out of the booth.
“It’s okay.” I jump to my feet and give Harper a look that says I need something to do besides try to make small talk. She nods in understanding.
It’s an obstacle course of people to get close to the bar, and I wonder if I should offer to play waitress for the rest of the night to help out. It’s been a while since I waited tables, but I remember how it’s done. Jeremy is at one end of the bar, Casey at the other, and closer to the kitchen, so I land in front of him.
“Hey, Case.”
“Hey, darlin’. You ready for another round?”
“I’m ready for food. Thought I’d help Kym out and grab our wings if they’re ready.”
“Give me a sec,” he says, mixing a drink.
“Sure.” I watch him do his thing along with the other women at the bar. He’s really pretty. And skilled with bottles of alcohol. I bet his hands are skilled at other things, too.
The second I think that, he looks up at me. Fudge. I can tell by the grin on his face that I’m blushing and he knows thoughts of him are the reason why. I look down at my hands.
“Hot wings with extra kick,” Casey says a minute later as he places a blue plate piled high with spicy goodness on the bar.
“Thanks. I’ll come back for a pitcher of beer?”
“You got it.”
The wings smell so good and I’m so hungry that I can’t get back to the table fast enough. I pick up the plate, spin around, and bump right into someone trying to edge his way into my spot. A tall someone wearing a white shirt. I try to keep my plate of hot wings steady, but it’s impossible as we attempt to swap places. The plate tips, and neither of us can react fast enough as chicken smothered in hot sauce slides right down the front of his shirt.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry.” I try to catch some of the wings, poking the guy’s hard chest and flat abs as I do so, and am completely horrified when I inadvertently grab more than chicken when I reach for a wing near the zipper of his jeans. I pull my arms back like I’ve burned them, digging my elbows into my sides, and drop the plate in my embarrassment. At the sound of it breaking, the restaurant goes silent and I feel dozens of eyes on me.
I turn to Casey for help. He’s got my back and tosses a towel over the bar. “I’ll grab a broom and wet rag. Don’t move,” he says.
My face feels like it’s on fire when I twist around to offer another apology and wipe the guy’s shirt before bothering to wipe my hands. Which only makes his appearance worse as I realize I’m rubbing the reddish-brown sauce into the soft white cotton blend. At least no one seems to be watching the spectacle I’m making of myself, the noise in the airy space back to full volume.
I drop my arms to my sides, registering for the first time that my target has yet to say a word. No foul language, no insult, no, “hey, it’s okay, I’m partly to blame.” He’s been standing there like a statue.
I look up to see his face for the first time.
Of course he’s ridiculously good-looking.
Around my age, I’d guess, dark, almost-black hair, square jaw, great cheekbones, striking green eyes. He holds my gaze and, very slowly, two impossibly sexy dimples show up. This elevates him from good-looking to hottest guy here.
Maybe hottest guy I’ve ever been this close to.
Until he gives me the look. You know the one. The one that says he thinks he’s God’s gift to all women. He also thinks I’m amusing if I’m reading the twinkle in his eyes right.
“Hey, man,” Casey says to my stranger. “This might help.” He hands over a small wet towel, then nudges me over so he can sweep up the large pieces of porcelain off the floor. “You okay?” he says to me. “You didn’t get cut or anything, did you?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
As Casey cleans up, he makes sure everyone around us is okay, too. Hot Guy runs the towel over the front of his shirt, but it makes little improvement. I’m ready to excuse myself but don’t want to be rude, since Casey is cleaning up my mess.
Technically our mess—I never would have spilled the wings if Mr. Full of Himself had given me more room to maneuver. But looking up at him, I’m fairly certain the guy takes blame for nothing. If his looks don’t get him off the hook, then something about his attitude tells me his personality probably does.
“Looks like I’m not the only casualty,” he says, finally speaking with a voice to match his attractiveness. The kind of voice I’ll remember tomorrow. Next week, even. It reaches past my ears, like Bennett’s does over the radio on Monday mornings.
His gaze moves slowly away from my eyes, over my mouth, down my neck, pauses for a moment on my chest, then continues to my stomach.
Not shy, either, this one.
I look down at my shirt at the same time he takes the towel in his hand and dabs at the hot sauce staining my top just under my breasts.
“Hey!” I push his arm away, but not before he gets a little too close to my boob.
He smirks. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not.”
“You’re right. I’m not.”
Finished cleaning up, Casey puts a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Get you the usual? It’s on the house.”
Great. Casey is friendly with this…this…I don’t even have the words to describe what I think about this too-good-looking guy, but they aren’t good. Especially since Casey blames me for our accident and is comping a drink because of it.
“Sure. Thanks,” the guy says.
“I’ll put another order of hot wings in for you, sweetheart.” Casey winks at me before moving back behind the bar.
“I’m really not that bad,” the guy says.
“What?”
“Whatever rant you have going on inside your head. I promise you, I’m not even close.” To back up his words, he folds the damp towel over so the dirty side is hidden and hands it to me. “You’ve got some sauce there, too.” He nods toward my right side.
“Thank you,” I say as I accept the towel. I check out my side mostly because the contradiction this guy poses has me more nervous than normal and I need somewhere else to look. This also explains why I rub at the stain and rub at the stain and rub at the stain, hoping he’ll get the message and step away without any further interaction.
He doesn’t.
I lift my head. His dimples are showing again. His posture is relaxed. Someone bumps him from behind and he pitches forward, catching himself by putting his hands on my waist. Our chests almost touch. I get a whiff of how good he smells.
“Teague?” Casey says from behind me.
I spin around, freeing myself from the first guy to put his hands on me in a while.
“Snagged these from another order.” A plate of hot wings sits on the bar. “And another server just showed up, so I’ll have that pitcher of beer brought to you.”
“Thanks.” Then over my shoulder I say, “Mind clearing the way?”
The guy looks at me funny, like he can’t believe I’m dismissing him so easily, before taking a step back. I lift the plate of food and slip past him, my shoulder brushing his arm as I make my escape.
When I get back to the table, it’s just Harper. She’s texting someone. “Hey, what took you so”—she glances up at me as I scoot into the booth—“what happened?”
That she knows something happened just by looking at me is one reason why I love her so much. “I dumped the first plate of wings all over some guy. His fault if you ask me.” I pick up a wing. I’m about to die from starvation any minute now.
“Was he good-looking?” This is her standard question whenever I use “guy” in a sentence. Not because she’s shallow, but because she’s genuinely trying to gauge the situation, and what’s on the outside does have some effect on what’s on the inside of a person.
“Yes,” I say around a small mouthful of chicken. “Where’d the finance guy go?”
“He was meeting some people. He asked if we wanted to join them later and I told him maybe. The guy you dumped on didn’t get mean, did he?”
“No.” I reach for my second wing, not the least bit bothered when hot sauce drips onto my shirt. “He was actually kind of nice.”
“Really?” Oops. Now I’ve got her attention when all I want is to eat.
I’m saved from further discussion when Kym stops at our table to deliver our pitcher of beer and two frosted glasses. “This is from Mateo,” she adds, putting a small cocktail down in front of me.
“Mateo?” Harper and I say at the same time.
“The hottie you bumped into.” She smiles, and I’m not sure if it’s because of Mateo’s looks or the fact that I ruined his shirt. “It’s called a Full Body Massage.”
I choke on my chicken wing.
“Nice,” Harper says. “Where is this guy so I can check him out?” She cranes her neck in search of Mateo.
“At the bar,” Kym says before she dashes off.
We don’t have a clear view of the bar, but that doesn’t stop me from looking for him, too. I’m not sure what the drink means, and I don’t like that. Maybe if I see his face again I’ll be able to figure it out.
“So,” Harper says, giving up her search and focusing all her attention on me. “I think Mateo wants to rub you.” She waggles her eyebrows in case I’m clueless about her meaning. Which makes me laugh because after four-plus years of being best friends, I’m clear on everything she insinuates.
“Or…” I grab two wings, putting one on Harper’s plate. “He’s a cocky flirt who probably hits on lots of women and isn’t likely to take any of them seriously.”
“You and the serious,” my very not-serious friend says nicely.
Not that I want anything serious. I don’t right now, but when I do, sincerity is at the top of my list. I’ve trusted the wrong person before, and I’ll never do it again.
I lick my fingers, then reach for my Full Body Massage. It’s the color of a sunrise. As I bring the glass to my lips, I glance over the rim, and there across the crowded restaurant in another booth is Mateo, his eyes on me. A girl sits on his left. A girl sits on his right. But at the moment his total attention is on me. He raises his beer in cheers, and then both of us take a drink at the same time.
I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or his stare that makes my body shiver, so I look away before I give him the satisfaction of thinking it’s him.