The Reason I Stay (3 page)

I
f I’m being completely honest, which I always strive to be, I have to admit that the idea of spitting in the asshole’s food did cross my mind.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve believed with all of my heart that chocolate chips have healing powers. Whatever crap life has thrown at me—and I’ve never had shortage of that—it was solved or made better by a dose of chocolate. Which is why I selected Friday—a notorious bad day in my life—to be Chocolate Chip Pancake Day. To me, it’s like taking cold medicine as soon as you start to sneeze. You kill the problem before it really kicks in.

For over a year, it worked . . . and then today happened.

Despite my usual stack of chocolaty fluffiness, only crappy things have happened on this monumental
day. My dog, Cash, ate my favorite sandals, my ancient car broke down yet again, my coworker Jen’s son got sick, which means I’m stuck working with the always unpleasant Judith for the entire day. If that wasn’t enough, I’m now waiting on a man so rude, inconsiderate and full of himself that he’s actually making me want to spit in his food.

But I don’t. Instead I grab the warm plate of food, place it on my tray, take a deep breath, and make my way to booth nine, hoping to God he followed my instruction and stopped hitting his knocker on the table. At the sight of him sitting up straight with one hand resting on the wooden surface and the other holding his beer bottle to his head, I try to keep the smug smile away from my lips, but succeed only partially.

His eyes are fixed on me, accompanying me the whole way.

Being watched isn’t something that bothers me. I’m more than used to having eyes fixed on me. After all, this is Jolene, a place with people so nosy they make me think of Sauron from
Lord Of The Rings
, with the great eye that is always watching. And since I’ve been this town’s female version Frodo for most of my life, that means the great eye has been fixed on or trying to find me for almost twenty-two years.

Regardless of how little I care about being watched, I do care that Jerkface has a frown fixed on me, and I’m cursing fate for whatever crap he’s about to put me through this time.

My chocolate-induced good mood has endured thus far, so I make a conscious decision not to allow him to sour it now. “Here you go. Chicken fried steak with white gravy, collard greens and mashed potatoes.”

I settle the plate in front of him. He places the bottle back on the table and reaches for the silverware. “Looks great, thanks.”

My brows pull together and I almost blurt out a “say whaa?” Instead, I clear my throat. “You want me to get you another beer?” I ask, my voice firm yet polite.

“No, I’m good. But . . .” I continue to stare at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence. But he doesn’t, he just looks at me, and I at him.

The frown moves from his face, allowing me the first real glimpse of his features. For the first time since walking in, they aren’t marred by a grumpy expression, and holy mother of the sweet baby Jesus, he’s undoubtedly the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He’s all sharp angles and undiluted rough perfection, and it almost makes me forget what a huge asshole he is.
Almost.

I have no idea how long I stare at him, but he hasn’t looked away either. Neither of us even blinks. That’s until I realize what an idiot I am for gawking at a man who was as mean to me as a man can be not ten minutes ago.

I close my eyes and shake my head. “But . . .?” I repeat, hoping he’ll finish his sentence so I can go away.

His brows pull together over his eyes, almost meeting in the middle. He blinks twice, and moves one hand up to tuck a lock of his golden shaggy hair behind his ear. I’m dumbstruck, because even his hair and his fingers are perfect in a very masculine imperfect way. I hate myself for allowing that line of thought to cross my mind.

“But thank you, Lexie,” he says simply, and turns his gaze back to his plate.

For some inexplicable reason, my knees weaken and a breath gets stuck in my throat, which is, in my opinion, two of the most uncomfortable things that can happen to a person. To make matters worse, when I say, “You’re welcome,” back to him, my voice is ridiculously shaky, which is, in my opinion, another super uncomfortable thing that can happen to a person.

Annoyed at my reactions, and at the fact that out of all the rudeness this man has shown me in the past twenty minutes it was the sound of my own name that got me really pissed off, I turn around and walk away before he has a chance to flick his gaze to me and make my knees weak again. I’m not that kind of girl, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen again. All I need is a distraction, something to keep my mind calm, and my wandering eyes and thoughts away from booth nine and the sexy douche-face sitting there.

Focusing on other tables is out, since, aside from
him
and the group of old ladies having tea in Judith’s section, the restaurant is as dead as the fly Judith just smashed with the menu she’ll likely give our next guest. I make my way to the waiter’s station, hoping I’ll find something to focus on there.

I lean against the wall, and look at the shelves under the counter. There, amongst piles of plates, buckets of silverware and rolls of napkin holders, I find salvation in the form of eight couples of ketchup bottles, waiting to be joined in matrimony. That’s not usually my favorite task, or one I’d perform during service hours, but it’s something to do.

After the first couple receives their well-deserved happily-ever-after, I realize that the mindless task is proving effective in the joints and mind category. I’m standing firm, my legs steady due to unweakened knees, and my thoughts aren’t focused on Mr. Rude at booth nine, or how sad he looked, or on how much seeing a grown man looking like that tugged at my heart—though these thoughts only serve to prove that my mind isn’t responding as well as my joints.

The things that worry me most, though, are my eyes. Despite my protests, curses and the herculean determination to salvage my Friday by not paying any more attention to that man, the damn balls of goo and nerves keep defying me, and moving to the other side of the diner. Finding their target, the betrayal worsens as they continue to ignore my commands and take their sweet old time watching
him
as if they—the eyes—belonged to some lovesick teenager.

He eats slowly. After every couple of bites, his lips clasp around the beer bottle for a drink. My eyes widen every time he does that, and I can’t move my gaze away from that bottle and that mouth. He has the most perfect mouth I’ve ever seen, a mouth that makes me think inappropriate things during work hours, for the first time in my life. And now, I’m officially disgusted with my eyes.

I fight harder to regain control, but my struggles are proving increasingly futile because the treachery keeps happening. I keep returning my gaze to him, studying the day-old stubble dusting his jaw, the straight line of his nose, the way that gray T-shirt clings to his shoulders and arms, and finally I’m studying a pair of dark blue eyes with silvery flecks that make me think about the night sky.

The fact I’ve just been caught gawking takes a few seconds to sink in. That dreaded moment happens right after one of those beer swigs, when he lowers the bottle to the table at a painfully slow pace. The corners of his lips pull up in the sexiest smirk I’ve ever seen, as those blue eyes stare back at me like he’s Superman using X-ray vision. For a moment, before I realize the stupidity of my thoughts, I wonder what underwear I’m wearing.

Heat flares in my cheeks, and I close my eyes. I’m beyond embarrassed, and I know he sees it, which makes my face heat even more, this time with rage at the idiocy of that thought, but I’m doubtful he’s able to see the difference. When I reopen my eyes, his smile has widened further.

Crap!

I curse because he’s mocking me once more, has the nerve to be flirty after all he’s done, and because he’s effectively ruining my chocolate-chip pancake Friday, which is inexcusable. But also because I, Lexington Amelia Blake, am completely losing my shit, and that is unacceptable. I’m notorious for not swooning, batting eyelashes or daydreaming about pigs—the metaphorical human ones, not the cute I-have-a-corkscrew-for-a-tail ones—who have the word “trouble” blinking like Christmas lights over their heads. In fact, one of the guiding principles of my life is,
If it walks and talks like a jerk, it’s definitely a jerk
.
Stay the hell away.

Jaw clenched, I groan again, and then I curse, out loud this time, because now my throat is itching from all the frustrated groaning I’ve been doing today.

I want to flip him off and find a time machine so I can backpedal to ten minutes ago, spit in his food, and then flip him off again. That would be such a wonderful plan, but since George Wells isn’t here, and a middle finger without spat-on food wouldn’t be quite as fun, I decide against it.
Fuckballs and heaps of shit!

Sticky gunk falls on my fingers, calling my attention back to the throwing-up bride I’m holding—god bless her soul. I put the bottle back on the counter, wipe my hand on a rag and decide that I’ve had enough. I’m
not
looking at that son of a whore again. That’s that!

Resolute, I focus on the task ahead and finish the weddings like the good condiment priestess I am. And soon enough my thoughts are away from
him,
and my Friday is back to being good.

“Moody-boy is calling for you.” A sour voice startles me just when I’m finishing with the last couple. I look up at Judith and meet a bushy brow raised at me. “Honestly, you have one patron, Lexie, one. Would it kill you to check on him? I can’t do both of our jobs, you know?”

Despite my aggravation, I laugh, because that’s bull. She could totally do both of our jobs, since they consist of two tables. However, I don’t reply. I simply store the bottles under the counter, and make my way back to booth nine.

I take a deep calming breath as I approach him; a second later I’m glad I did, because his mouth opens.

“Finally! So nice of you to grace me with your presence.” His dry, condescending tone makes my fists clench as all the vicious anger I was feeling minutes ago comes back with a vengeance. I close my eyes, and he continues. “Some waitress you are. I’ve been done for almost twenty minutes—that’s also how long I’ve been trying to get your attention so I can pay, get the hell out of this place, and be done with the big mistake that was stopping in this rickety town.”

He takes a deep breath, and though I know he’s not finished, I am. “I apologize.”
My ass that I do
, but I’m working, so I have to be polite. “I’ll go get your bill, and you’ll be outta here in no time.”

“Fine. But try not to waste time giving me the do-me eyes from across the room. I suffered through ten minutes of that already, while I was eating, nonetheless, and I’m in no mood to for a second round. I said it before: I’m not interested.”

My breath is knocked out of me. Actually, I think my lungs were knocked out as well, because I can’t pull air into my chest to save my life.

I have always wondered what people mean when they say that they are seeing red, and I think now I know. Although, it’s not really red as much as it is blurry, with these little stars fuzzing the edges of everything. The only connection to the color I can make is the anger pulsing through my veins. If I could punch him without getting fired, I would. But I can’t, so I straighten my back, reaching my full height of five feet and two inches, look him square in the eyes and point a finger at his nose. He lifts a brow in challenge, and I do the same.

“I know in your eyes I’m just a waitress in a crappy diner in Nowhere, USA, which is nothing compared to whatever the hell you are,” I start, allowing my voice to be as calm and leveled as I can, “but I’m the bigger and better person here, because I didn’t spit in your food. I could have, and I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

His eyes narrow a bit as he looks from my face to the finger I have pointed at his nose. He looks positively pissed or confused—it’s very hard to tell at this point. I’m way past caring, so I lower my index finger and tap it on the table a few times, one for each thump of my heart.

“Yes, I looked at you for a few minutes. And yes, part of it was because on the outside you’re handsome,” I say. “But mostly it was because I felt sorry for you. And I stopped looking at you because, once again, you mocked me, even though I was nothing but nice to you. So please, don’t flatter yourself, because I’d die a poor spinster waitress before I ever considered giving you a chance. And don’t worry, I’ll run to get your damn check, because I also can’t wait ‘til you’re outta here.”