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“Probably not.” He screws the lid back onto the bottle. “Leave her alone.”
“That’s your advice?”
“You called twice. She didn’t answer. She knows how to reach you.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say? Chase her around the city until she changes your rating to exceeds expectations?”
I hate that he’s right. Rachel knows I called. If she wants to speak to me, she can call back. If she doesn’t, then I have my answer.
“Fine.” I grab my towel. “I’m done with her.”
“Good.”
“Completely done.”
I stand and move around the bench. I’m leaving Rachel Hartwell alone. She won’t get another call, message, or damn word from me.
Daniel turns to the bar. He replaces the twenty-five-pound plates with forty-fives, bringing the weight to two twenty-five. Then he pulls off his warm-up top and drops it on his bag, leaving him in a fitted black training shirt.
“Was that necessary?” I ask.
“It helps me lift.”
“It helps you admire yourself in the mirror.”
He ignores me, lies back on the bench, and sets his grip. “Spot me.”
“That seems unsafe. According to you, I’m too weak to get the bar off your chest when you fail.”
“Fair point. Go find that woman you scared away. She looked stronger.”
“Hilarious.”
18
RACHEL
On Monday morning, I sit in my office with coffee beside me and a stack of weekend reports I should’ve finished an hour ago. When my phone rings, I know who it is before I look. My pulse still jumps when I turn it over, which only annoys me more.
Eric. This is his seventh call since yesterday morning. The first came from an unknown number, but he left a message asking me to call him. I saved it after that, mostly so I’d know when not to answer. I still don’t know how he got my number.
He hasn’t left another message. His name just flashes across my screen, waiting for me to give in.
Saturday night was a mistake. I wanted him, and some foolish part of me thought sleeping with him might get him out of my system. Instead, I was thinking about doing it again before I even got home. If I stay away from him long enough, the feeling will pass. At least, that’s the plan.
The phone stops. I set it aside and force myself to read the report in front of me.
A minute later, the restaurant manager calls my office line. Thursday’s roster is two servers short. He wants to move the Anderson party out of the Garden Room and into the smaller dining room beside the restaurant so the same team can cover both spaces.
I tell him no. The Andersons have been coming to the Hartwell for twelve years, and they booked the Garden Room months ago. We aren’t moving them somewhere worse because we made a mistake with the roster.
We argue for several minutes before I hang up and make a note to find two more servers before lunch.
The office falls quiet. Then my phone rings again.
Eric’s name fills the screen. I pick it up but don’t answer, watching it flash until the call ends. Before I can put the phone down, someone knocks on my office door.
