I actually realized just now that I was in more shit than I realized.
Was I going to have to move home to Connecticut with my parents? Or worse, crash on Julie and John’s couch and be all pathetic in their newly engaged life?
No way.
“As soon as possible?” I queried, praying Julie would somehow jump out of nowhere and stop me from this train wreck.
Wait, I wasn’t seriously considering leaving New York City and moving here to Tennessee, right?
I laughed nervously as my own mental breakdown played out before my eyes.
“Okay…” He hesitated, bending down and pulling out a sign that he laid on the bar.
Be right back. Steal shit and I shoot, the sign said.
Charming.
If I could just stay for one month. Thirty days and I could probably get him to stop smoking, see what he was like, get him to church and save his life, because clearly he was on the wrong path. It was like a project. Like a soufflé about to deflate. Something I could control.
He walked to a side door I hadn’t noticed and I followed him. The floors were sticky with beer and the shades were drawn, making the entire place dark and dingy. The side door led us to the outside, and we were back in front of the doorway I’d tried before and found locked.
I made small talk. “Do you own the bar as well?”
He simply nodded and grumbled, “Family heirloom,” leading me up to the apartment door.
Some family heirloom this place was. Colin would have had a field day with this place. He’d have drawn up a ten-page business plan and charged a twenty-thousand-dollar retainer and turned it into the hottest joint in town. I looked at Ashton, I mean really looked at him, and found myself baffled by the fact that he was so good looking. Messy dark hair that was thick and glossy, wide strong jaw and perfect fucking straight white teeth. Why did he have to be so sexy?
His phone rang, pulling me from my crazy thoughts and he looked down. “Shit, I gotta grab this real quick.”
Sure, leave me outside in the sweltering summer heat.
“Alright.” I played nice.
He stepped away a few feet and put the phone to his ear.
“My favorite cousin!” he answered cheerily, then immediately he frowned. “Come on, it’s only a month, forty-five days, tops.”
A moment of silence and then his frown deepened. “Richie, I need a fry cook and you’re the only one I trust. You know the kitchen and—”
Fry cook?
A really scary and disastrous plot unfurled in my mind. Maybe if I worked with him, I could have more access to him and then I could better help him. I mean, his shirt didn’t even look clean. He was screaming “save me,” without really saying it.
But was I in the position to save anyone?
Yes. I was.
This was what I needed.
This was my way out of my funk. Colin saved this guy’s life but I would really save him, and when I left, I’d move on because I’d know that Colin’s heart was in good hands.
“Alright. I understand.” He hung up and walked over to the apartment door, unlocking it with an angry jerk.
Upon opening it, we were directly in a stairway that went up. I pretended I didn’t hear the fry cook thing because I was doing a mental check-in with myself to be sure I wasn’t actually losing my mind. Cordon Bleu pastry chef turned fry cook at dingy country bar? Yep, losing my mind.
“Only three units here. Mine, the vacant one, and Mrs. Pennyweather.”
I nodded, taking in the dirty baseboards and general lack of a doorman or elevator.
“So, did you grow up around here?” I pried for personal information. Was he born with a heart defect? Was it an accident? Was it all the fucking smoking?!
“Sort of,” was all he answered before opening the door to 3b. “This is it. No air-conditioning, so you’ll have to get a window unit at the hardware store.”
Great.
I stepped inside and let my eyes roam over the space.
It wasn’t half bad, size-wise. Big for a studio, which I was used to in New York City. But the décor was yikes. Super ‘90s orange-ish wood paneling and pink tile with a floral wallpaper.
This wasn’t how I expected this day to turn out … I just wanted to glimpse Colin’s heart living on in another guy and then feel settled.
Instead it had opened a can of worms. Ashton was … rough, broken, and I wanted to fix him. I knew it was a mistake and I would probably live to regret it, but I was in the midst of my own quarter life crisis, so fuck it.
“Five-fifty a month and not a dollar more.” I crossed my arms. “I’d also like to apply for the fry cook job. I heard you on the phone.”
He narrowed his gaze at me. “You want me to lower the price and give you a job?” He chuckled, and the act of smiling did wonders for his face. He looked pleasant and less like the asshole he really was. “Oh, honey. That’s a tall order.”
I rolled my eyes. “I spent a semester in Paris learning to bake with one of the best pastry chefs in the world. I can handle some fucking chicken fingers.”
Ashton was one of those guys you had to push back or he’d trample all over you.
He crossed his arms, the shirt straining to accommodate his muscles, giving me another peek of that scar. “Six-fifty a month and you got the job.”
I gasped. “What? How do you figure that one?”
Did he just raise the price?
He grinned. “Because if I have to work with you all day, I need a little more cash for my pain and suffering.”
This motherfucker!
“Fine!” I snapped.
“Fine. Now change into something more normal. Happy hour starts in a half hour.”
More normal?
I
