Loaded, p.13
Loaded, page 13
“Since you seem very very opposed to broccoli, I guess I’ll take it.”
“You know, if my mom saw me here, she’d say I must really like you. When I was a kid, she couldn’t get me to eat a single bite of the stupid little trees. That’s what I called them.”
But when I circle back around with his meal, the entire plate’s clean. “Did you throw it in a plant or something?” I ask. “Or flush it? I’m pretty sure our toilets can’t handle that. I’d like a little warning if it’s going to back up. I can tell Harv who to bill.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I imagine your toilets here are pretty powerful.”
“You didn’t really flush it, did—”
“Relax,” he says. “I ate all of it so that when you meet my parents, you can tell them about what I did to impress you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not even a little bit,” he says. “Trust me. Nothing would tell them how much I like you more than my willingness to choke down broccoli.”
I’m laughing as I start to walk off.
“Wait. You didn’t tell me what this is.”
“It’s the burger from the first night,” I say. “You’ve been a pretty good sport about everything. I figured after getting stuck with broccoli, you should get something you really like.”
“But it’s the same thing I already had.”
“You’re a problem child.” I shake my head.
“How about this?” He points at the empty seat. “You eat this with me, and then you can bring me something else.”
“But you’ll have to wait even longer, and I can’t afford to sit down and share a meal.”
He hands me the burger. “Just take a bite every time you come by.”
Our fingers brush when I take it—can’t leave him hanging, plus I’m starving—and my heart lurches. “Fine. Just one.” But it’s a big bite, and the burger’s even better than I remembered. I close my eyes. “Man, that’s good,” I finally say.
I grab my second bite a few minutes later after I drop off another round of drinks for the table next to him. And when his pork chop with Portuguese clams is ready, I get a third. “This is kind of fun,” I admit.
“Really?” he asks. “Because this girl I like works nights, so I’m kind of always free. I could do this every night.”
I press a finger to his mouth. “Don’t even think about it.”
His eyes light up and he looks at my finger as his mouth curves into a half-grin.
I yank my hand away and wipe it on my apron.
“You sure about that?” He hands me the burger again.
By the time he’s finally done eating, it’s time for my shift to end.
“How about it?” he asks. “Stick around and eat dessert with me?”
I already told him I’d go on a date. How much worse is eating a dessert with him? Still, I feel like I have to ask for permission. “Lemme make sure it’s okay.”
It takes me a minute to track down the manager.
“Your boyfriend—who keeps coming and buying all kinds of things—wants you to finish your shift by eating with him? Food he’ll be paying for?” My manager Phil rolls his eyes. “Go ahead. Do it every night if he wants.” As I walk off, I hear him swear under his breath and mutter, “I miss the honeymoon stage of dating.”
A moment later, I carry out two strawberry arnaud lookalikes.
“What’s this?” Easton asks.
“Have you ever heard of the Strawberry Arnaud?” I ask.
“Should I have heard of it?”
I set his down in front of him, and then I walk around and sit across from him. It’s strange. . .and kind of amazing. “This famous restaurant in New Orleans offered it for a while. It was a million dollar—or three million, I suppose—dollar dessert.”
“It was—what?” His eyes bulge. “Did we really need two?”
“Relax,” I say. “The guy I’m dating says we can eat here every night.” I can’t help my grin.
“I mean, how many million is it?” He looks a little sick. I can’t tell whether he’s playing along, or whether he’s nervous.
“This one’s twenty dollars,” I say. “But it doesn’t come with any hidden extras.”
He exhales dramatically.
“When you read on the restaurant’s menu about the dessert, it goes on and on about the fine Louisiana strawberries, the port wine reduction sauce, and the creamiest ice cream.” I point at the desserts I brought. “This one has all of that. Ice cream, strawberries, and a port wine reduction infused with citrus.”
His brow furrows.
“But the famous one came with a massive diamond engagement ring, and for a while it was a pretty famous way to propose if you were, you know, uber rich.”
“Are you trying to send me a message?” He arches one brow.
“No way,” I rush to say. “I just love strawberries, and I’ve always wanted to try this.”
He laughs. “I’m kidding, Bea. Calm down.”
But actually, as I sit there eating ice cream and strawberries, I’m the opposite of calm. For the first time in a very, very long time. . .I’m hopeful. Things in my life are scary, but they’re also exciting.
12
Easton
A Sunday night isn’t the ideal time for a date, but I didn’t want to wait until Monday, and I’m not sure that would really be any better anyway. When the girl you like works nights, you take what you can get.
It took me a while to figure out what to do on our date.
First dates are a lot of pressure when you like the girl—it’s a little like picking appetizers and entrees for someone that you want them to like. But I’m virtually certain I’ll win her over with my plan. I have very little to work with that’s in any way adjacent to the musical realm. I wasn’t kidding when I said I sound like the seagull from The Little Mermaid. Honestly, that might be a little generous. He, at least, had moxie.
I do have one single card to play.
I’m thinking the element of surprise will help me, so my text is a little vague. I’LL PICK YOU UP AT 6. WEAR COWBOY BOOTS IF YOU HAVE ANY.
That precipitates a volley of clarification texts from her, all of which I ignore. Where’s the mystery if I tell her via text what we’re doing and why I chose it? No, it’s better if she stews a little. I’ve given her the relevant information. It’ll either go over really well, or it’ll be like the time I tried to rent out her entire area at work.
I’m really hoping for the ‘well’ option. I must be due, right?
I check my clothing at least six times in the mirror before I decide I should text someone. I have no idea what my stylist would say, so I don’t ask her. I text Ace a photo.
OH MY—WHAT ARE YOU WEARING, TEX?
REMEMBER THAT CLASS I TOOK IN UNDERGRAD? I’m hanging all my hopes on the fact that my professor gave me an A, and now that I’m almost out of time to even change clothes, I’m starting to panic.
Ace calls me. “What are you doing right now?”
“She agreed to let me take her out,” I say.
As my best friend, Ace was the first person I told when I met Bea. “Took her long enough.”
“Things that are worth it take effort.”
“So you keep telling me,” Ace says. “But I prefer easy conquests.” Some girl’s laughing next to him.
“You don’t say.” I snort. “But listen, do I look okay? Ask your date.”
“She wants to know how rich you are,” Ace says.
I hang up. Clearly any advice he gives me won’t be any good. “Okay,” I say to myself in the mirror. “It’s going to be fine. She agreed to go out with you, and if nothing else, she’ll see that you put effort into this.”
Right? Probably.
I give a lot of thought to which car to pick her up in. I could use the 4Runner again. She seemed surprised, but she knows about it. She probably drives something a waitress can afford, but I’m absolutely positive her brother Jake drives something expensive. I know Emerson doesn’t care much about cars, so I’m wondering whether she’ll like a more expensive car or be repulsed by it.
At the end of the day, what woman hates money?
I almost take the 911, but in the end, I pick the XC90. It’s not flashy, but it’s roomy and nondescript. It’s the safe call, and I feel like I should play some part of tonight safe. When I pull into a spot in her apartment complex beside a truck, I’m glad I picked the car I did. Jake’s outside with Bea, and he’s kicking her tire. Neither of them sees me, which allows me a moment to spy on them.
“This thing’s a hunk of junk, Bea. I swear, why won’t you just let me buy you something that runs?”
“Because you’d get me something horrible.”
“You could just take one of my two cars,” he says. “I don’t need both.”
“Like I said. Horrible.” But she’s smiling.
“Pick what you want, then,” he says.
She sighs. “I can afford the car I have, as you well know.”
“I have more money than I need, as you well know, so—” He cuts off when he sees me.
Bea follows his face to mine. “Oh.” She glances at her watch. “Shoot.”
She’s wearing a very cute sundress, but she’s definitely not wearing boots. At least she’s wearing cute flats that are close-toed.
“I don’t have cowboy boots,” she says, “and I was going to try and find a pair at Goodwill, but then my car wouldn’t start and—”
“Who gives a girl shoe requirements for a date?” Jake scowls. “Starting off on the wrong foot, man.”
Bea kicks him. “Stop being rude.”
“Ow.” He’s limping as he hobbles toward the apartment. Maybe that’s why he keeps glaring at me, but I doubt it. I have a growing suspicion that Jake’s feelings for Bea aren’t entirely brotherly.
“Are these shoes alright?” Bea looks nervous.
“They’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m sorry I stressed you out.”
She shakes her head. “No, you didn’t. But then you didn’t respond about why I needed them, and I was worried.” She takes in my outfit—Lucchese boots, dark jeans, a belt, and a grey western shirt with snaps in place of buttons. “Are we going to some kind of costume party?”
I can’t help laughing. “Something like that.”
“Huh?”
“Are you ready to go, or do you need to go back inside?”
Bea snatches her purse off the top of her car and walks toward me. “No, let’s steer clear of Jake. He’s always in a bad mood when I ask for a ride.”
“Seems like he’d be happy to fix your transportation problems.”
Bea sighs, following me to my Volvo. “Jake’s always extra. You just have to learn to say no around him a lot.”
“At least he means well.”
“He still thinks his whole career took off because of one stupid song I wrote.” She snorts. “It was his face, his talent, all of what makes Jake Priest that won. It had very little to do with my song.”
I remember that single, I think. “Was it the one about lemons?”
She pauses. “You remember it?”
“They played it like twenty times a day for a while,” I say. “Everyone remembers it.”
“Well, anyway, movies are a way better fit for him, I think.”
“Because he didn’t really write the song?”
“He’s just a better actor than a pop star.” She shrugs. “He really likes acting, and he’s great at it. I suppose you could say his life prepared him to be good at it.”
I’ll have to ask more about that one later. What kind of life prepares someone to be an actor? Was he a circus performer or something? “Are you curious where we’re going?”
“I assume that was your goal.” She hops in the car before I can decide whether to be cheesy and open her door.
I rush around and climb in my side to start the car. “It was, I guess, but only because I wanted you to spend today looking forward to our date.”
She’s staring out the window, so I have no idea what she’s thinking or whether she’s annoyed.
“Maybe that was the wrong plan. I could have simply started early and tried to monopolize your time all day.”
Her head whips toward me. “Oh, no, that would’ve been bad. I had to do all my laundry this morning.”
“Oh, darn. That was a missed chance,” I say. “I wonder what you look like when all your good clothes are dirty.” I eye her outfit. “You could have been wearing American flag pants and a kitten shirt.”
“Or an old Pink Floyd shirt and Sponge Bob boxers. You never know.”
At least we’re chatting just fine. In fact, the thirty-minute drive to City Slickers flies by, and as we pull up, Bea peers at the street signs. “Where are we?”
“I haven’t been here for a while,” I say. “I’m a little worried I’ll make a fool of myself. But. . .” I cut the engine and climb out.
She looks at me over the hood of the car. “City Slickers?”
I point to the line below it. “Dance hall.”
“Dance?” Her eyebrows rise and her lip twists. “As in. . .we’re dancing?”
“Not a fan?”
She shrugs. “I mean, I’m not not a fan, but I’ve never been before.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Most of the heavy lifting falls on me, I swear.”
“And you know how to dance?” She lifts both eyebrows. “Because that surprises me, to be honest.”
I laugh. “It was my favorite class one semester.”
She stares.
“Okay, fine. Two.” I start for the door, and she catches up. I think about going for her hand, but it’s too early. She’s too skittish.
And I’ll be holding it a lot in a few minutes if things go as planned.
“They also have amazing tacos,” I say. “The proprietor started this as a Tex Mex place, but they decided to add some things to bring more people in, and. . .” I gesture for her to go ahead of me.
It’s usually hard to get a table, especially on Sunday nights. They don’t do country dancing every night, but they do Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I called ahead, however, and with a little persuasion, they agreed to hold us a spot.
“Mr. Moorland,” the host says, waving us through.
As we eat our tacos, Bea watches the dancers. Her tapping foot is a dead giveaway that she’s musical. She may not know how to dance, but she knows rhythm. Unfortunately, she also appears to be getting more and more nervous about the dancing part.
“I’ve already had a lot of fun,” she says when I finish my second taco. “I’m not sure—”
I stand up and hold out my hand.
“But my purse.”
“It’ll be fine, I promise.”
She frowns, but she does stand, and then she places her tiny hand in mine. That same zing I felt before runs from the place where her hand touches mine, all the way through my entire body.
Until this moment, I wasn’t sure it was real.
I’ve seen enough movies where you feel that little zap, but in thirty years, I’ve never once felt it myself. I thought maybe that’s what happened before, but it was so quick that I didn’t trust it.
But tonight?
Touching her makes me want to dance, so we’re in the right place. And just then, a song ends. I have to drag her, practically, but we slide out onto the dance floor. When the next song starts, it’s This Kiss by Faith Hill, and it’s a good one to start with.
Watching her face as my hand slides around her waist and my other hand wraps tightly around her hand, moving her around the dance floor in time with the music. . .it’s everything I hoped it would be. She’s easy to move—not fumbly or resistant—and once we start moving, it’s like she and I are the only ones out here.
That’s always been my favorite part. The world disappears.
Her cheeks are rosy, and by the end of the song, she’s smiling.
“Not too bad?”
“You’re a wonderful dancer,” she says. “I’m very impressed.”
But the next song’s starting. “Shall we keep going?”
She doesn’t pause. She just nods.
I whirl her away. The faster songs, the slower ones, she never asks to sit down. Hours pass, and my feet start to complain, and still, we keep dancing. Finally, I get a small stitch in my side, and I drag her back to our table.
“Were you really not tired?” I ask as we’re both chugging our waters.
She shrugs. “I’m on my feet for more than eight hours a day for work.”
I smack my forehead. “Duh. I should’ve known.”
“What?” she asks. “Sitting at a desk and ordering people around all day didn’t prepare you for this?”
I laugh. “I may not be able to walk tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t you stop sooner?” She looks genuinely worried.
“It felt like I’d drifted into Faerie,” I say. “I would have danced all night.”
“I’m sorry you felt chained to it.”
“Nothing like that,” I say. “I just didn’t want to let you go.” I can still feel her in my arms—the most perfect thing I’ve ever felt.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, it feels like she thinks the same thing. All around us music blares, people bustle, and glasses clink. But here, at our table, it’s like the tiny sphere of isolation that exists on that dance floor has extended to wrap us up again. It’s just Beatrice Cipriani and me, our perfect moment. Her eyes are wide, her lips just slightly parted, and the only way this could be better is if there wasn’t a table in between us and I could kiss her.
I’m trying to figure out how I can make that happen when my phone rings, the stupidly loud jangle breaking through our bubble like a hammer to glass. I ball up my hand, my jaw tightening. Why didn’t I turn the ringer off?
“Do you need to answer that?” Bea glances down at it.
I hit the volume down button to silence it, but it starts ringing again almost immediately. It’s Ace. He’s going to keep calling until I pick up. I groan and swipe to answer the call. “What?”
