Luck on the Line Page 11

  A wicked, wicked smile brightens his features and in that moment I take a step back to stop myself from reaching out and untucking the top of his towel. I run into my room and find the oversized shirt in my duffel bag. James waits outside my door and takes it.

  “Can I also get one of those?” He points to my drink after he pulls on the shirt. It says STEEL GYM across the chest, a snug fit. It was free when I joined. He unwraps his towel. I jump back, my eyes not ready but not able to look away.

  Only, he’s wearing his boxers. Dirty, dirty boy. The wicked smile is still there and it catches like wildfire to my face.

  “Come, I’ll fix you a drink.” I graze his hand and lead him to the living room. I use the remote to turn on the fireplace, then pour him the same bourbon I’m drinking.

  He takes in the bookcases, the antlers, and the white carpet. He sits on the ground in front of the fireplace, legs spread out towards the flames. He props himself up on his arms so I have a good view of his thick leg muscles. I nearly choke on my bourbon.

  I sit beside him on the floor. Slowly, I reach out to touch the cut on his forehead. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.” He places a hand on my knee.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t get arrested.”

  “You’re Lucky,” he says. His face is flushed and his green eyes are bright and glossy.

  “Did you know that security guard?”

  James nods. “Someone from my past. I—I can’t get like that again. I’m not—”

  When he stops talking I urge him. “You can tell me.”

  He brushes hair away from my face, letting fingers linger along my neck. “I can’t.”

  I feel a very strong urge to touch more of him. I stretch my legs on top of his. He looks down at where his hand rubs circles on my knee. We’re a mess of limbs warming by the fireplace and it’s the safest, most comfortable I’ve ever been.

  I set my drink to the side and he does the same. I know that James Hughes should be off-limits. One, he’s my mom’s executive chef. Two, I have to work with him until the restaurant opens. Three, I haven’t been as scared as I was when I saw him punch that guy in the face in a long time. Four, if I let myself do what I’m intending to do and he rejects me, it’ll hurt, despite all the walls that I’m trying to bring up. I want to say that it’s just his beautiful face, the bright shining green of his eyes, the way they soften in the firelight as his body relaxes against mine. But despite all of my attempts at rationalizing how I shouldn’t feel for James, and how I do feel for James, I know that something in the tightness of my chest is overriding all of that.

  “Lucky,” he whispers. There’s that hesitation again. His hand moves through the air slowly until it reaches my cheek. My skin tingles as his fingers trail down my neck and across my collarbone. My tank top feels too tight. My nipples might just rip right through it. I lean close to James so he can feel how much I want him.

  I catch his lips with mine. He winces. I forgot about his cut. That cut shakes me into reality a little. I want to know about his past. I want him to tell me everything about him. It kills me that I know he won’t, not tonight.

  Still, he leans forward and pushes the kiss back, his body climbing on top of mine and pinning me on the soft white carpet. With his hands on either side of me, I grab hold of his face. He gasps when my fingers touch the bruise on his cheek.

  “I’m sorry.”

  A deep rumble vibrates from his chest to mine. I move my leg to the side. I can feel how hard and thick he is through his boxer shorts. I can feel it through the thin material of my own pajama shorts. He bites my lower lip and kisses the sting of it over and over. I run my fingers through the thick mass of his dark hair, using my legs to press him harder against me. I wiggle my hips up to grind our bodies together. James takes my hand, pins it against the carpet, crossing his fingers with mine and squeezing.

  I moan into his ear. A spark builds in my belly and spreads through my center. He presses his erection against my panties and I can feel his whole body shake on top of mine. I run my free hand across his chest. He takes that one, too and holds it down.

  “Lucky,” he whispers.

  I wrap my legs around his waist. Turn my face to nibble on his ear.

  My skin is so hot I think I might go up in flames. I realize that’s what passion is supposed to feel like, and the startling wonder of that leaves me stunned that I haven’t been able to pinpoint it before this. I wriggle my body against him to feel his thick hardness against me. I want to rip off the layers of our clothes. I want to know what James feels like inside me.

  Then as fast as I jumped on top of James, he jumps off. He lets go of my wrists and the pressure of his delicious body is gone. His weight is replaced with an unbearable ache.

  “What’s wrong?” I whisper.

  He stands in the study in his boxers, his erection saluting the room.

  Then I hear what he hears. Felicity’s door jostling open.

  I point to the bookcase. He presses himself in the nook between the bookcase and the wall. I cover my mouth to stop from laughing. The soft shuffle of Felicity’s sleepy feet finds its way into the den. She rubs her eyes. Her hair is tied back with a hairband.

  I sit upright and take a pillow to my chest.

  “I didn’t realize you were still up,” Felicity says.

  “Can’t sleep.”

  She stretches. “Thirsty.”

  My eyes go to where James is shirtless and pressed between a wall and a hard place. If she takes a couple of steps towards me, she’ll see him and his erection. Granted it’s a glorious erection.

  “Did you see James?” she asks. “Is he okay?”

  “I’d say he’s pretty good.” Better than good. It takes all of me to not look at him.

  Felicity yawns. “I thought he was going to kill that guy.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  Felicity’s big brown eyes are heavy with sleep. Damn girl, just get your water and go back to bed.

  “I mean, the guy he was beating on wasn’t even the right one who was bothering us.” She shakes her head. “Don’t tell Stella any of this. I’m going to have to do some serious PR work tomorrow. Now that my adrenaline is gone, I just think what he did was dumb.”

  My heart twists and turns for him. “Felicity—”

  “Don’t get me wrong, he’s nice and all. He’s got the whole package Stella was looking for. He’s hot so it’ll drive up the female clientele. He’s local, so it gives The Star credibility. His food is excellent, but he’s still green and wants this bad, so he won’t butt heads with your mom.”

  Part of me wants to hide my face in a pillow. Part of me wants to throttle Felicity and tell her to shut the fuck up. But then I’d have to explain why, after all the time I spent dissing him, I was dry humping him in my mom’s living room.

  Felicity yawns. “At least you guys are civil now. I guess we just have to make sure to not get him pissed off or we’ll have another Hulk-smash moment. God, after we open, I’m going to need a long vacation. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Felicity disappears into the kitchen. While she pours herself a glass of water, I realize the fireplace is full of dying embers. I turn to James, not knowing what to say. Is this the moment where we laugh about it? Do we continue the kiss? Please, please, let us continue the kiss. His green eyes hold mine as we stand still, listening to Felicity run the water in the kitchen. I hold out my hand. I have every intention of taking him into my room. Instead, he shakes his head a tiny bit, as if to banish the dizzy bourbon buzz and Felicity’s careless words.

  My breath catches when he lands a kiss on my lips. It’s hard and needy and over before I can kiss him back.

  “James—”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He walks past me and heads down the hall.

  He doesn’t ask me to come with him so I wait until I hear the door to the guest room close and Felicity walk sleepily back to her side of the ap
artment before I make my way to my room. How can I sleep knowing there’s only a wall between us? I press my hand on his door. I have every intention of knocking. But then, why should I knock after he clearly didn’t want me to follow? I’ve done a lot of things, but chase after a guy who doesn’t want to be chased isn’t one of them.

  Chapter 18

  The great thing about having a hookup in your own house is that there’s no walk of shame involved.

  At least, not for me.

  I hear James stir in the morning. The sensible thing for him to do is to wait for us and catch a ride to work to get his bike. My temples pump from pain and dehydration. I drink thirstily from the glass of lukewarm water at my bedside table. I groan under my covers and cover my face. Maybe if I stay under here I can cocoon myself away from having to see his face and remember our kiss. Kisses, plural, now. I won’t have to deal with the hot shame of rejection. The equally hot shame of desire.

  Dear Lucky,

  Get a grip.

  Signed,

  Your Concerned Self.

  Here in my down-comforter cocoon I realize I never showered yesterday and the stench of stale beer and nachos is mingled in with something else—James’s lips on my neck. I am equally grossed out and turned on. I shower and get ready, opting for black jeans and a black tank. I brush my wet hair into a ponytail. In my reflection, the dark circles under my eyes are more pronounced. There’s no hiding from the harsh light of day. I go through some of the makeup on the dresser and find a concealer that matches my olive undertone. It’s not that I don’t know how to wear makeup. I grew up with a mother who wouldn’t go to the nail salon without filing her own nails first so the ladies wouldn’t whisper about her in foreign languages. I’ve worked at enough bars to know that a push-up bra and some mascara equal big tips. I find a pretty peach lip-gloss and brush the fuzzy, sticky applicator across my lips. I give myself the once over. I shrug to myself. “Well, at least you look like a human.”

  Felicity is ready about the same time as I am and is making coffee in travel mugs. “Good morning, sunshine.”

  The simple phrase is arresting. That’s what my mom used to say when I was little.

  “Hey,” I peel a banana and break it in half. “Is James ready?”

  Felicity’s face reads confused. “He’s not here.”

  My heart plummets with disappointment, dread, and there’s that embarrassment again. “What?”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, I heard him leave as I was getting up. I asked if anything was wrong and there was a family emergency. He said he was just going to take the T and he’d meet us at the restaurant.”

  “Oh.” My mouth is one tiny O. O, as in oh my god how can I look him in the face again. O, as in obviously he is trying to avoid you. “Well… Okay. We have a lot of stuff to do today. I have a million missed calls from numbers I don’t know. Who calls my mom at 3 AM? Know what? I don’t even want to know. Let’s just go over what we have to get done today.”

  Felicity stares at me curiously. You know when you’re hiding something, and the very guilt of it makes you think that everyone knows you’re hiding something? Still, if she has something she wants to say to me, she keeps it to herself. “We have interviews all day. The most important people for the tasting are a bartender, four or five great waiters, and—

  “What about a manager?” I ask.

  Felicity chews on the inside of her cheek. “Well, technically you’re the manager.”

  “I mean for after the launch.”

  She avoids my eye. “We’ll get to that when we get to it. To be honest, and it’s not my place to say anything, Stella thinks you’re staying for a lot longer than that.”

  I inhale deeply and shove my coffee down my throat. It burns, but at least I can concentrate on this pain. “Know what? Fine. Let’s go get us a staff.”

  While Carlos and his team are working on the infamous wall, to prep it for the new fabric, I can’t help but think that there’s still something missing from this place. Obviously, the first step is to make the new wall flame retardant.

  I try to envision what I can add to make the entire location look a little more cohesive, or at least have some sort of personality. Personality, which this interviewee doesn’t have. Felicity and I have to keep saying, “What?” because her voice is barely a whisper.

  We’ve seen dozens of girls and guys looking to get hired for these coveted server positions. Felicity’s ad went through catering agencies that have models on staff. I worked with these kinds of people in New York, but there are less of them here in Boston. The others are a mix of middle-aged women who watch my mom’s show, and young gay guys who also watch my mom’s show. So far no one has any experience.

  “This is a mess,” Felicity says, three puffs from needing a brown paper bag. “That girl smelled like armpit and patchouli.”

  I shrug. “So do most of the waitresses in the Village.”

  “Lucky! This is serious. We need some good people. We can’t just hire anyone.”

  “I liked the girl: Sammy. She’s like a sexy plus sized pin-up girl.”

  “She’s covered in tattoos.”

  I roll my eyes. “So is James.”

  James who isn’t here. Every time I hear boots shuffle down the hall my heart does a head-bang against my ribs. But it isn’t him. It’s Nunzio and his shining, smiling face picking up the slack in the kitchen. When I asked him if he knew where James was he mumbled something about family and then started talking about his hot date.

  “James is the head chef,” Felicity argues. “He can do whatever he wants to his body as long as he can cook.”

  “Her tattoos aren’t going to be in the food. Unless they get some squid ink pasta.”

  Felicity sighs and shakes her head.

  “All I’m saying is that this is an up and coming neighborhood. When I left for school there was nothing here but warehouses. Now there are million dollar condos and bars and funky restaurants. This place is called The Star, even if it’s just for my mom’s ego. It could use some glamour, not just an homage to Home & Garden. Stella has a chance to do something really cool. God knows she’s got the money for it. Why the hell are you smiling at me?”

  Felicity shrugs. “For someone who’s only doing a favor, begrudgingly I might add, you really have a vision for this place.”

  I frown at her words. She’s not wrong, but I hate that she’s called me out on it. I think I underestimated Felicity.

  “Well, Stella isn’t answering any of my calls,” I say, standing to stretch my legs. “Did you like Sammy, besides her tattoos?”

  “Definitely.”

  “She’s hired. If Stella doesn’t like my decisions, then she shouldn’t have left me in charge.”

  I can see the trepidation flood her face, followed by a smile that comes with breaking the rules. “In that case, I really love Junior Chan. The boy knows his seafood. He’s putting himself through culinary school and doesn’t have any experience serving, but we can teach that.”

  “Hell, I couldn’t balance two plates together without dropping them at my first job. That lasted about a week. Hopefully he’ll be a little more coordinated than I was.”

  “Let’s hope the second batch is promising.”

  When we take a break from the slew of poorly typed resumes that include high school clubs and babysitting, I’m ready for a drink. The bar is the only part of The Star that is pristine and finished—it’s beautiful and fully stocked. I run my hand along the white wood and find a Marie Antoinette champagne glass. Bartending myth goes that the tiny cup is an exact replica of Marie Antoinette’s breast. I don’t know if it’s the left or right one, but I guess right, since the right is usually bigger.

  I’m bringing out a bottle of the house champagne, grapefruit juice, and some bitters, when the front door opens. A girl about my age walks in. Her jeans are slung low on her hips, and a line of skin shows from her skintight white tank. A red necklace is cushioned right in her cleavage. Her hair is blonde
at the tips and brown at the roots in that ombré effect. Her tan skin is dusted with some shimmery stuff and her full lips are deep red.

  “Belle?” I lean over the bar.

  She stares at me blankly. When recognition sparks in her eyes she shrieks. “What the fuck! Lucky Fucking Pierce.”

  Felicity is startled as Belle runs across the front of the restaurant and behind the bar to pull me into a neck-breaking hug.

  “I thought you were acting in L.A.”

  Belle rolls her eyes. “The only parts I could get were ‘Sexy Ethnic Girl At A Bar’ or ‘Gang Member #5’. L.A. is not my town.”

  “That’s shit. I’m sorry.”

  She shrugs, but she doesn’t look like she’s sorry or missing any of that.

  “Felicity,” I call, waving her over. “This is Anabelle Garcia. We went to high school together. She was the class salutatorian.”

  Belle sucks her teeth. “I would’ve been valedictorian if Mr. Harlington hadn’t given me a C in AP Chemistry.”

  I shake my head. “Why does that pervert even have a job still? What have you been up to?”

  “I did my four years at NYU. Overrated and pretentious, just like high school. I have a degree in business administration and a minor in theater. Wall Street is such a boys club, it’s disgusting. If I told you some of the things guys asked me to do during interviews, you’d probably want to castrate every man ever. I got super depressed, so naturally I moved to L.A. to try to act. I became a bartender and then moved back home when my mom got sick a few months ago. I didn’t know you were working here—is it true that hot guy from TV is the chef?” She whistles.

  Just when I’d gone ten minutes without thinking of him. “Yeah that’s the guy. This is my mom’s place. I’m just…helping…while she has some business things in New York.”

  “So, here’s my resume,” she sets it down on the bar top. “But I think it’d be best if I just make you a drink.”

  She sets her hands on her hips and walks up and down the length of the bar, appreciating the polished wood and then unique way the bottles are shelved up in glass so if you look at it from far away it looks like they’re floating. “Nice.”