Neither of the women are that much better, their pretty faces scrunched up at me.
Sam chuckles, pulling me in front of him, hands on my hips. His front is nestled closely to my back.
“Jerome, Anne, Tal, this is Olivia.” He gently squeezes my side. “Livvy, these are my friends, and they also work here. Jerome’s my manager and sometime bartender when I need one, and Anne and Tal are hostesses.”
“Hi.” The greeting is flat, not expecting much of a welcome even with Sam’s endorsement. I still don’t know what I did to deserve their disdain.
“Olivia?” Jerome arches a dark brow. “The Olivia? The chick from Beaulieu’s?”
I uncomfortably clear my throat at the designation of “chick,” giving him one of my own scowls. Jerome smiles at me in what I think is his attempt at flirting, unfazed by my ire. Both women offer quick hellos before resuming their task of setting the tables.
“Yes,theOlivia.” Sam voice carries a smile as his lips graze my ear. “Never mind him. He thinks he’s my mother and my security detail on top of everything else.”
Jerome protests, but Sam ignores him, leading me down the hallway into a room marked Office.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes.” His gravelly tone provokes a quiver in my belly.
When he attempts to pull me into another hug, I place my hands firmly on his chest. Despite wanting nothing more than to roam his rock-hard pecs and abs, I need to focus.
“Sam, we need to talk.” He nods, looking at me encouragingly. Not wasting any time, I dive right in. “I didn’t mean to brush you off that night when I said we needed to talk to the kids. I wasn’t prepared to do it, and because of that I backed away. It was stupid of me and not what I meant to do.”
“I know.” His eyes are soft and understanding.
“Okay, so if you know, why didn’t you text or call after the competition? And why didn’t you respond to my text earlier this week?” I fight to keep my voice calm and hope to God I don’t sound pathetic and needy.
He scrubs a hand down his face and sighs. “I’m sorry.” Taking both my hands in his, he tugs me closer and gently squeezes.
“I agree, we need to talk, and I want to, but it’s not something I wanted to do over the phone or text. I wanted to see you, talk to you before I left, but there was no time and I wasn’t in the right headspace. I had to get home. There are things I want to tell you, but not here. Let me finish up these orders—my bartender’s out today—and then we can go.”
Eager to talk but willing to give him a bit more time, I nod.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Best surprise ever.” He smiles and pecks my cheek before sitting down behind his desk.
Sinking into the oversized, weathered leather couch, I note his office is jam-packed. Next to the couch is his large, retro desk, and a bookshelf sits against a wall, crammed with cookbooks, vinyl records, and a few novels. Amidst all the chaos, the surface of his desk is surprisingly neat, sporting only a laptop and lamp.
On his laptop, he studies the screen like it’s the Holy Grail, small lines forming on his forehead as he concentrates. Occasionally, he lifts his head with a small, sweet smile just for me before returning to his task. My phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Sin: Where r u?
Me: Montreal
Sin: What?? Yay! Say hi to Sam
Me: Lol What’s up?
Sin: Jonah is cursing you. Run, girl, run. U r supposed to run with him today
Me: I canceled. Tell him to check his voicemail.
It now dawns on me—Jonah hardly ever checks his phone messages, so I should have texted him. He prides himself on being Mr. Technology, all digital age, but he’s not one to actually talk on the phone or to even think about any potential voicemails. Not a good way to run a business.
Sin: He says not cool.
Me: You’re with him?
Sin: Yup. He suckered me into running. You OWE ME!!
Me: Pace yourself. ILY xx
