11
MELANIE
With a large serving tray balanced on my hand, I carry five orders of Thursday’s turkey-and-gravy lunch special out to the group of silver-haired women chattering over iced teas at the back of my section at the diner.
“Here you go, ladies.” I set the heaping plates down in front of them, tucking the emptied tray under my arm while I ask if I can bring them anything else.
I wasn’t supposed to work until Saturday, but with an entire day to kill after my abrupt dismissal from Jared Rush’s mansion this morning, I decided I’d rather pick up an extra shift than spend the rest of the day at home steaming over the infuriating audacity of the man.
I’d also like to forget that I took my clothes off in front of him, but that’s never going to happen. Even though I had almost convinced myself it was simply a requirement of the job I’ve entered into on my own free will, it didn’t feel like a job.
Standing naked in front of him while his inscrutable, assessing gaze drank me in from head to toe felt more intimate than I want to admit. It felt like being caught in a storm, all of my senses heightened, my skin too tight and too hot, alive with a million tiny electrical charges.
Now, several hours later, all I feel is anger and awkwardness.
Based on his unreadable, almost harsh expression while he stared at me I have to wonder if he’d suddenly regretted offering to paint me.
Maybe my scar put him off.
Maybe he didn’t appreciate the fact that I hadn’t swooned on top of his breakfast table the way I’m sure he’s accustomed to with any other woman he meets.
Or maybe he’d prefer to paint Alyssa, whoever she is. Though he didn’t exactly seem happy to be dealing with her this morning, either. Not that Jared Rush’s women or his no doubt well-deserved problems with them are any concern of mine.
“Melanie, dear?” One of the ladies breaks into my thoughts with a pleasant, sing-song voice. “I hate to be a bother, but didn’t I ask for the vegetables in place of mashed potatoes?”
Shit. I blink and shake my head. “Oh, yes you did. I’m sorry, Mrs. Augustino. I’ll be right back with that for you.”
It’s not like me to be so distracted, but my mind has been in a scramble all day. Not only because of my unsettling reaction to Jared Rush, but also because of the things he said to me.
Things about Daniel.
They may be colleagues on the hotel project, but Rush’s mistrust of Daniel is clear. Anyone would have a right to be upset over a sizable debt like the one he racked up the other night, yet Jared Rush seems to disapprove of Daniel on a deeper level, as a person.
Why hire him for the project if he didn’t like him? For God’s sake, why invite him to a private, high-stakes poker game at his mansion—especially when he was aware of Daniel’s situation in Las Vegas?
I didn’t even know about that myself. Jared Rush is right, I was blindsided to learn about Daniel’s gambling. I felt foolish; I still do. Why had he kept it from me? How long would he have tried to keep it a secret?
As I return to the kitchen for the side plate of veggies, other questions gnaw at the edges of my thoughts, too.
Not only about the man I fell in love with over these past three months, but about the one I don’t know at all, yet who seems able to reach all the way into my soul with a single burning glance and a few shockingly intimate words.
If you were mine, I would’ve put a fucking bullet in my head before I’d ever give you up to a man like me. Not for any reason. Not for any price.
I can still hear the dark vibration of his deep voice so close to my ear. I can still feel his heated breath against my bare skin. I feel it so intensely, I shiver with it even now.
God, what is wrong with me? I need to forget about Jared Rush. I need to forget about all of the confusing things he makes me feel every time I’m near him. He is a means to an end, an opportunity for a new start for both Daniel and me. Once he has his painting and pays for it as promised, Daniel and I can try to get past this whole troubling situation and move on with our lives. Although, I can’t deny my trust in him may never be fully repaired.
As for the way Rush behaved with me this morning and his unsettling remarks, for all I know it’s just preparation for him getting me in front of his canvas. I should expect him to probe for weak spots, to look for cracks in who I am.
He won’t find them. I can’t let him.
Blowing out a sigh, I push through the swinging door into the kitchen, which is operating at full tilt for the busy lunch hour.
“Order up,” the cook calls out, punctuating it with a ding of the bell beside him.
The plate of pasta marinara and garlic toast is for one of the other servers’ customers, but I snag it after ladling a small bowl of steamed broccoli and carrots for my table.
“I’ll take this out, Chuck.”
He gives me a wink and a wave of acknowledgment while moving on to tend the burgers sizzling on the grill. When I step back out to the dining room to deliver the food, I practically crash into Daniel.
“Hi, Mel.” He’s wearing a suit as if he’s come straight to Queens from his office in Midtown, which he apparently has. In his hand is a large bouquet of red roses.
He’s never come to the diner before. It’s so unexpected to see him
