If Crystal is in a relationship with Patrick, maybe Cruise shouldn’t have had her in his room half-naked with another girl. But for some reason, I can’t cast him as a villain. My mind just won’t let it happen. Possibly because Cruise has a dimple in his left cheek, and it makes me want to convince him to smile all the time.
The clam shack is a small building, painted the same white as the hotel. With an ocean view, it must be prime real estate. Blue shutters frame the wide windows overlooking the bay, and the tables are decorated with simple blue checked tablecloths.
“Cruise, welcome, young man,” a woman who must be the owner comes out of the kitchen and greets my lunch date by taking both his hands. “I hope you’re doing okay—”
He cuts her off, by raising his hand to interrupt. “Karen, this is Maya Bennett, she’s the new night manager up at the hotel. And a brand new friend.” He places emphasis on the word friend.
Karen’s eyes widen a little, possibly mirroring my reaction.
“It’s nice to meet you, Maya,” she says with obvious sincerity. “We get a good deal of business from the hotel. In fact, if the hotel were ever to close, well, I don’t know how my little restaurant would stay in business. I count on you to work hard, make it prosperous again.”
She winks, but beneath the expression, she’s serious.
“I want to bring it back to prosperity again,” I admit. “It’s been my dream, since Mr. Bancroft hired me.”
Karen glances at Cruise, but I can’t see his expression.
“No matter what happens at the hotel, the clam shack would stay in business because you have the best clams in the state,” Cruise declares. “Do you have someplace we can sit that might be a little more private?”
This seems to be a direct contradiction of his assurance that I’m a friend, but Karen reacts immediately.
“Of course, of course. People will stare, won’t they? You can sit upstairs. The private dining room isn’t usually open for lunch, but it’s always ready in case a large party comes in. Follow me.”
She leads us up a narrow flight of steps, to a gracious low ceilinged room with several long tables. “Take the one by the window. It’s the best view in the house, for my favorite customer.” She smiles at Cruise
“Maya isn’t much on clams. Bring us a selection of your best entrees, but don’t leave out the clams. I’m hoping to convince her that they are, indeed, a delicacy.”
“Absolutely,” Karen agrees, hurrying into the kitchen, calling to her staff that she needs an assortment plate.
“Karen was a friend of my mother,” Cruise tells me. “This has been one of my favorite restaurants since I was a kid.”
For the two of us, introduced through loud music and customer complaints, this is a rare insight, but he doesn't expand on it, and I don’t ask.
“It’s a nice place,” I comment. “You bring many girls here?” I immediately hate myself for the insecure question. I meant to compliment the restaurant, and it just slipped out.
“Not really,” he toys with the tiny unlit votive on the table. “Not since mom.”
“Oh,” I say. His voice is tinged with sadness, so I’m sure there is more to the story, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Well, I’m happy that you asked me to join you.”
“The girls I tend to hang around with are more at home at the truck stop, or the bar—not the tourist trap on the boardwalk, but the real bar, out past city limits.”
At least he’s honest about the places where he, and his associates, fit in.
Karen visits our table to bring tall glasses of water, and a plate of delicate appetizers.
Cruise raises his glass. “I’d like something a bit stronger—”
Now it’s Karen’s turn to cut him off. “I can offer you a soft drink or fresh lemonade,” she says sweetly.
Cruise tries to stare her down with those piercing blue eyes, but she just smiles.
“Lemonade,” he growls finally. Something about his voice when it goes low sends chills all through me. How can he sound so sexy when all he’s doing is ordering a beverage?
“For you, dear?” Karen asks me.
“I’ll have the same,” I say, crossing and uncrossing my legs and trying to pretend that Cruise’s voice didn’t affect me on some primal level. I can only imagine my response if he used that voice to say something suggestive.
“How did you come to be the night manager at Seascape Villas?” Cruise asks.
“I interviewed last week, and Mr. Bancroft was kind enough to hire me,” I answer.
“Ah,” he says. “After Rodney the douche was fired. What possessed you to interview for the position of night manager in the first place?”
“I interned at a similar facility,” I tell him. “I majored in business and hospitality. Most people in the program were either inheriting businesses, or going on to work in some slick corporate owned casino or high rise type resort, but I’ve always been drawn to family owned businesses.”
I sip the lemonade, thankful for something to do with my hands. His scrutiny leaves me struggling to form coherent sentences, but his interest seems completely sincere.