Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“Mr. Henderson, hello,” I say quickly, struggling to tie my apron and keep a polite smile on my face at the same time.
He appraises me with a cool look. “You’re late, Ms. Reilly.”
“I know. It won’t happen again,” I say for the second time.
Without replying, he moves past me and rounds the counter, where he exchanges a few words with the bartenders.
I stifle another sigh. Great start to a shift—pissing off both my manager and the bar owner in less than the five minutes I was late by. I grab an order pad and a tray, and turn around just in time to bump into Trisha.
Wait—Trisha?
“Hey! What are you doing here?” I demand. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the puppet show? That’s why you took my shift yesterday, right?”
Splotches of crimson stain her cheeks. “Uh, I traded shifts with Kate. Lou cancelled tonight, but we’re going out to dinner tomorrow so I needed Kate to cover for me.”
“Lou cancelled?”
“Yeah.”
Disbelief and suspicion battle for my brain’s attention. This whole shift switcheroo hasn’t sat right with me from the beginning. “There was no musical, was there?” I say slowly.
Trisha’s cheeks grow redder. “No,” she finally admits. “But Lou and I really are going out tomorrow and it’s the first time he’s wanted to take me out to dinner in ages, so I had to switch with Kate and—”
“I need to speak to both of you,” our manager interrupts. Lynda sharply gestures for us to follow her to the other end of the counter. With Mr. Henderson out of earshot, she fixes both of us with a deadly stare. “I spend two hours every week writing up a damn schedule, coordinating everyone’s day offs, vacation requests, sick days—and I won’t have my employees screwing around with it at their leisure.”
Trisha’s flush deepens. “Lynda—”
“Let me finish.” She turns to me. “The next time you decide to take a personal day, you clear it with me first, understand? You don’t call Trisha and Kate and make changes to the schedule without speaking to me.”
I swallow. “I…”
“And you,” Lynda cuts in, turning to Trisha. “You don’t take anyone’s shift without asking me. Now, both of you, get to work. Jeremy is here, so you’d better be on your best behavior.”
“What the hell is going on?” I demand after our manager marches away. “You never cleared it with Lynda?”
“You can thank me later,” Trisha shoots back. “I just got bitched at by our boss so you could go on a romantic getaway with Tony.”
Tony?
Trisha hurries off before I can respond. Since I’m fairly certain my manager’s eyes are glued to me, I grip my order pad and head toward one of my booths. I have to repeat my customer’s order three times before I get it right, but I can’t force my bewildered brain to focus.
Trisha thinks I went away with Tony? Why would she think that? And how does she even know I was away?
I drift back to the counter and place my drink orders with Matt, then curl my hands into fists as it dawns on me.
Ben.
Somehow, Ben must have contacted Trisha and asked her to cover last night’s shift.
A slow rush of anger fills my veins. Damn him. When I agreed to give him a place to stay, I only asked for one thing in return—that he didn’t complicate my life.
And what has he done? He’s complicated my freaking life!
Distracted me from my schoolwork. Stuck his nose into my job. And now, thanks to him, my face will most likely be splashed on every tabloid on the news rack. The attention at the airport made me feel angry and exposed, and although I know it isn’t Ben’s fault the media was waiting for us in the gate, I still blame him just a little. I should’ve never gotten involved someone like him.
What the hell was I thinking?
My hands tremble from embarrassment as I realize that by now the entire world probably knows about me and Ben. What if the reporters start harassing me the way they harass Ben? What if they show up here at work, or my apartment, or the Broger Center? What if they dig around in my background and decide to paint me as some abandoned foster-kid gold-digger who’s just after Ben Barrett’s oodles of cash?
The final thought makes my hands shake harder, which causes the tray I’m holding to tilt over. The pint glasses on it slide to the edge, screwing up the balance, and before I can stop it, four tall glasses of Heineken smash onto floor.
Everything shatters, cold liquid splashing against my ankles. I blush like a tomato when I notice the entire bar has gone dead silent. Customers peer over from their booths and tables to examine what caused the enormous commotion. I turn my head away from the curious stares, and a second later I’m on my knees, fumbling for shards of glass with my bare hands.