I shake the thought aside and look at my martini on the coffee table. He’s a womanizer, he seduces women, this is what they see in him—confidence, a bit of an alpha nature, those wicked teasing words of his, that rebel streak, the laugh, the good times, the money he spends so easily, the lips, the body, I’m not even going to think about the rest but I can tell by the wear of his jeans that he’s as well-endowed there as everywhere else.
Don’t they say everything is bigger in Texas? Well, he was born there. Enough said.
The drawl is not always noticeable. I wonder what it is that makes it come out, like now?
Wynn heads over to hang with Rachel and Emmett, and we’re alone now and silent as we watch them.
“Babies, huh,” Tahoe says softly.
“Babies.”
He lifts my martini, sips from it then hands it over so I can take a sip as well.
We’re both thoughtful and puzzled. Stunned. We’re both at the moment you realize your closest friends are growing, leaping forward, charging ahead, and you’re still the same, you still aren’t really sure where to go from here and if you’re happy where you are at all. I can’t assume Tahoe is really happy, or why would he want to hang out with me?
“While the Saints play house and your friend Wynn over there maneuvers to get an engagement ring on her finger, you’re probably going to be stuck with me,” he says sardonically as he watches me set down my near-empty martini glass.
A smile appears on my lips and I guess it appeared quickly enough to amuse him, because his eyes start twinkling as he smiles at me too.
BURNING
A blizzard hits the city two weeks later, and I have to reschedule some of my house calls. I spend a lot of time in my apartment whenever I’m off work, watching movies with Trent.
By the time the blizzard stops a few days later, I’ve had a lot of things to mull through. I stare around my apartment when I arrive after a particularly exhausting day at work. My lonely apartment. Which I can no longer afford.
I feel unsatisfied and restless, but I don’t know why. It’s almost as if I can’t seem to find my place in the world. Rachel is expecting, Wynn has moved in with Emmett, while I’m barely in the beginning stages of a relationship, and about to have to leave my apartment.
So I decide I want to try to buy my own place rather than rent. Set down some roots. To do that, I need a boost of income, enough for me to save up for a small down payment. I really need to be earning more if I hope to buy my own place—one where I won’t be getting kicked out. Ever. I boot up the computer and spend all night searching Monster.com and the classifieds, and end up making a few queries.
Two days later, I get a call and land a huge gig.
The gig requires me to wear a black waitress uniform with a cute little white apron. I’m serving at some sort of investors’ get-together, where would-be investors can learn the how-to’s of investing.
I’m there early that evening, helping set up the kitchen and uncork the wine and fill the glasses. Soon a live band is playing in the main room, and groups of men are scattered throughout the space that’s big enough to sit two hundred guests. I walk past tables with a tray of wine glasses containing a crimson-red cabernet, heading toward the area my boss told me I would be responsible for.
I have never waitressed before and although my uniform fits me all wrong, I am completely focused on not spilling the tray of glasses as I head to the nearest table and start setting down drinks when a familiar voice reaches me.
“Gina?”
I cringe, but force myself to turn.
Paul is standing only feet away, sharply dressed in a tailored suit with cuff links and an expensive but simple tie clip, surrounded by similarly dressed executive types. And I stand here in an ill-fitting waitress outfit with an empty tray in my hand, instead of a toothbrush.
He runs his gaze down my body in disbelief. I can see it in his eyes: Wow, you’re a waitress?
He looks at my attire with quickly growing scorn, and I want to throw my tray at him while, at the same time, wanting to hide behind it. I guess I knew, deep down, that I’d one day bump into him again. I always imagined I would look successful, have an incredibly hot guy on my arm, and be wearing my best dress. I always imagined I’d lift my nose at him, like the scum that he is.
I didn’t expect it to hurt, still. After all this time. For the sight of him to rip off the Band-Aid I’ve worn for years and make me bleed again.
I don’t love you…
I want to yell. I want to hide. And I hate hate hate that what I really want to do is cry, as if I haven’t cried enough for him already.
But all I can do is turn away and charge across the room, almost stumbling to get away, until I finally reach the kitchen. My eyes burn and I hate that they burn. I feel small and I hate that I feel small. I set down the tray, fumble through my pockets, and take out my phone.
Me: So Paul is at this gig I’m working…
Rachel: NOOOO! Gina, breathe. Don’t talk to him, don’t even look at him!!!
Me: I’m his waitress!
I wait for her reply, and it takes nearly a minute to appear on my screen.
Rachel: Gina…don’t be upset but, I told Saint I wanted to leave our event early to go support you, and guess who punched the table and shot out the door?