The Girl He Wants Page 4

  Dad, a southern-born, dark-haired American, quickly changed it to Jaynie-girl and called me an original. I loved him from that moment forward.

  “Not marrying too soon before you know what you want. Look at me. I could be working in my family teashop. But no, I’m here working my hands to the bone, standing on my feet all day.” She cast a narrowed gaze at Dad, who harrumphs with admirable pseudo-disdain.

  “Take me to America, you said. I can’t pour another cup of tea, you said. You just used me to get to Graceland.” Dad winks and slides the bowl of dough down the counter toward Mum then takes a second, different bowl from the counter and begins his stirring, this time with increased vigor.

  “Stir it like I taught you, daft man.” Mum lovingly shakes a wooden spoon in the direction of his head.

  This is their thing, their shtick.

  “Jayne,” Mum calls as she swivels back to me. “I made you a new visual motivator. It’s in the office. Go get it.” Her prolonged stare makes me trudge down the hallway to the office. Sure enough, once I step inside, a giant, tri-fold poster with a newer, grander profit thermometer waits for me. Its side panels open as if waiting for a hug. Silver lining? It’s not on her chalkboard for the world to see.

  This time the goal isn’t a somewhat reasonable cool million. Mum’s added a quarter million to the total.

  Motivation or pressure, they’ve become synonymous.

  To make matters worse, the thermometer, likely drawn by Mum’s hand, looks remarkably like an outline of a penis with one giant uni-ball.

  I stifle a laugh and lean against the desk. If I had my phone I’d send a pic to my friends.

  “What do you think?” Mum calls.

  “Well done, Mum,” I call. I catch sight of a stack of folded papers on the desk, OVERDUE stamped in a bold red on the top one. I shuffle through each of them without hesitation.

  Bills every one of them, and there’s eight. Utilities, food delivery, and advertising.

  I scan the desk for others and find a different stack of unopened envelopes. Though my fingers itch to slide a letter opener through them, I let them be.

  I weigh my options. Do I go out to Mum and Dad and ask about them? Do I write the checks now to cover them and then discuss it later? I know they work hard. I’m also aware that they are slowing down, Dad even more so after his accident.

  I twist my earring and ask for a sign, some sort of direction to tell me what to do.

  I place the stack where I found it and stand. Timing will be everything.

  When I reenter the kitchen, I watch my parents for a moment. Should I pause my expansion and sink my money in their business?

  Dad catches my gaze and winks. I nick another piece of fish. “It’s nice, Mum. I’ll let you know if I get off track.” I stuff the filet in my mouth.

  “Well, you have it in you, Jayne. You can take this to levels I will never go. You’re talented and clever and I’m so very proud of you.” She pats my cheek, her hand warm from being close to the fryer.

  We’re alone in the kitchen. I take the opportunity. “Er, Mum. Dad. In the office I noticed some...er...unpaid bills.” Please let a bolt of lightning strike me right now. This is a moment I never envisioned. Who pictures the scene where they ask their parents if they’re paying their bills? Gads. “Is everything all right?”

  Mum looks to Dad and I strain to interpret the silent message that passes between then.

  “Everything’s well, Jaynie-girl. I’ve just been a bit tired. Especially after the accident. But everything’s caught up. You saw old statements.” Dad nods as if to reassure me further. I curse myself for not looking at the statements’ dates, having been mesmerized by the large red OVERDUE.

  I glance at Mum. She’s nodding too.

  “If I can help with anything?” I don’t want to say the word money and trample on their pride.

  “You can make that thermometer I made you all red. That would help.” Mum smiles but loses it to a yawn.

  I press my hand to hers. “Have you thought more about my offer to gift you an entire weekend on Amelia Island? If you’re tired, a break might do you well.” I figure since they are going to Josie’s wedding they could go up a day before and have two glorious nights and three days to relax there.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She looks at Dad. “There’s so much to do here.” Says the woman who never goes on a spontaneous holiday. She and Dad spend seven days a week in their pub and never less than eight hours a day. Dad, who should be home resting, comes in every day because hiring kitchen staff is not in their budget.

  “Jeff can cover,” I say. Our former dishwasher, who’s worked his way up to cook, has worked here since the place opened. He’s never been more than part time, but that’s because Mum can’t let go of control.

  “We’ll think about it.”

  “I’m just going to do it. Book the room and then guilt you into taking it because I can’t get a refund. It’s okay to take a break now and again, Mum.” They barely leave as it is. Closing one week in the spring to fly back to England so Mum can visit her sisters, another long weekend in Memphis to group-mourn the week Elvis died—known as dead week—and only one week for Christmas. It takes the state health department to keep either of them in bed when they’re sick. It tears me up to see this. Life should be getting easier for them. Not harder.

  She glances at Dad again. His stirring has slowed and his mouth is a thin line, likely from the pain. “All right. We’ll do it,” she whispers.

  “Wonderful.” I clasp my hands together in joy.

  “Love you,” she says.

  “Love you more.” I kiss her cheek.

  She moves away to batter the fish. “If you take this to table ten, I’ll get you some going. I’ll make it extra crispy like you like.”

  “Deal.” I slip on a fresh Union Jack apron. Silk does not respond well to grease. I ease the tray up on my right hand and head out to the floor.

  The dinner rush is finally waning. A few of the regulars are at the bar and only a couple of tables are occupied. I head to table ten.

  “Two fish and chips,” I call as I balance the tray and put the baskets and vinegar on their table. I turn to smile and look into the face of Mr. Car Park Murderer, also known as Stacy. Gracious, he has stunning blue eyes.

  Chapter 5

  One basket for him, the other for the small girl he’s sitting with.

  “Looks as if we’re destined to keep running into each other.” I look at the girl, who can’t be a day over...oh, I don’t know. She feeds herself and doesn’t wear nappies; it’s anyone’s guess as to how old she is. “Hallo,” I say to her.

  Stacy stands and places a hand on the child’s shoulder. “This is my daughter, Cordelia. Cordie, this is Jayne. She’s a good friend to Josie and Brinn. Go figure.” He cuts his eyes to me and shrugs, but the small tilt to his lips tells me he’s teasing.

  Nice memory. Though I suppose being called a serial killer is not something people easily forget, or perhaps it was the uncomfortable staring I did at Josie’s. Either way, not the best first impression.

  “Obviously we got off on the wrong foot. Perhaps we should start again, considering our mutual friends and the likelihood we’ll come across each other...often.”

  He pauses, his gaze bouncing between me and Cordie, then tucks one hand in his front pocket (Gads, I can see the liner of said pocket poking through a hole in the jeans) and says, “I think I can manage starting over.” He’s got a wry, endearing smile.

  “So you’re here. I mean, you’ve moved down, then.” I gesture for him to sit.

  “We got here yesterday and furniture came today.” He looks at my apron. “I thought you owned a store or something like that.”

  “My parents own this place. I’m helping out. Where did you settle?”

  “I took a townhouse in the Ormond Beach area. Timber Lakes. Paisley turned me onto it.”

  I live in Timber Lakes and
there was a flat across from me for let. I wonder if he took it? I do a mental rewind of my neighborhood car park from this morning. I don’t remember seeing a moving truck. Perhaps he didn’t take the flat by mine after all. Of course, I did leave before nine and haven’t been home all day, not even for lunch.

  “So then you’re all moved in?” If Paisley had a hand in it, then it is the flat across from me and the chances of running into each other increases exponentially. Oh, wouldn’t he be impressed with me using math terms?

  “Well, we’ve got all the boxes in the house. We took the townhouse across from you. So I’m told.” He meets my gaze; his blue eyes are soft and gentle. Not overly dilated like the other night. Not that the flash on my phone had anything to do with that. Or hypnotizing as they were at Josie’s “I was worried about that—our safety and all—but Josie and Brinn assured me you’re harmless.” He winks, a smile dancing upon his lips.

  I return it, not the wink but the smile. Our gazes lock and a surprising hum of pleasure runs through me. I look down at his cherub-faced daughter and reason with myself. I don’t do, date, or even entertain the idea of doing or dating men with children. No matter how keen my girly parts are on getting to know his boy parts. At this stage, I’m confident they’d be interested in just about any age-appropriate boy parts that come their way. It’s been a bit of a dry spell.

  “You’ll love the neighborhood,” I say to Cordie, girl of poor unfortunate name. “Plenty of kids your age and a park.” I assume they’re her age. They look about the same height.

  “We really like the place and the neighborhood. Don’t we, Cordie?” She’s hoovering food into her mouth. She nods and keeps plowing through. As if she’s been without for days.

  Perhaps they have been. Maybe they’re into fasting. Or only eat meat on certain days. If that’s the case, I feel terribly sorry for this girl. No wonder she’s inhaling the fish.

  Stacy glances down at his basket, and I’m prompted into action.

  “Eat,” I say. “Before it gets cold.”

  He’s still standing, only now looking down at me, hand resting on the chair he’s pulled out. “Would you care to join us?”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’m not hungry.” Why draw out all this awkwardness?

  “Here you are, love.” I turn to find Mum behind me holding out a basket of fish and chips. “You said you were starving so I thought I’d rush this out to you.”

  I ignore Stacy’s quiet chuckle.

  “Mum, this is Stacy and his daughter, Cordie.” I turn to the tall man. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your last name.” I’m sure Paisley or Josie mentioned it one point five million times.

  “It’s Cunningham.”

  Oh, well that’s a lovely name. “This is my mum, Millie Grandberry.” We all say our pleasantries except Cordie. She continues shoving food into her mouth as fast as she can.

  My mother looks at Stacy’s daughter and bends to talk to her. It’s moments like this I wonder why she never pushes me for a grandchild. “Cordie, eh? I’m guessing that’s short for Cordelia. It’s a lovely name.”

  Cordie licks her fingers. “I hate it. It’s ugly,” she tells Mum.

  “Mm, I imagine you would think so. My name is Millicent and I hated if for a long time too.”

  “You like it now?” Cordie asks.

  Mum nods. “It’s grown on me. How’d you like those fish and chips?” We all take in Cordie’s empty basket.

  “They were good. Thank you,” she replies.

  Nice manners and she’s quite cute. She has Stacy’s eyes and sweet smile.

  “I’m guessing you’re what? Ten?”

  “I just turned nine.”

  “Oh, my. Well, you do seem so much older.” Mum feigns surprise then replaces it with a puzzled look on her face. As if she doesn’t buy it.

  Cordie puffs out her chest and smiles. “It’s because I’m an only child.”

  “You and my Jaynie-girl are much alike.” Mum winks. “I’m not sure if you’re still hungry or not, but I’ve got an assortment of ice cream in the back. Not for all the customers, only the ones I like.” She looks at Stacy. “Is it all right?”

  “Please don’t feel you—” he starts. “I mean, we don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “What do you say, poppet, care for dessert?” Mum holds out her hand and waits while Cordie gives her dad a silent look, asking for permission, perhaps. He nods.

  Mum takes Cordie’s hand and off they walk toward the back, chatting.

  I stand there with the tray and my basket feeling awkward, at best. Because if he extends the invitation again I’ll have to use utensils or at least make an attempt.

  “Please join me.” He slides out the chair for me and waits until I sit. “I promise to not commit a crime against your person.”

  “I’m not going to live it down, am I?” I hesitate for a breath then ease into the seat.

  “Probably not. Are you sure that’s okay?” he asks, nodding to Mum and Cordie.

  “Oh yes, It’s a nice break for Mum. She’ll scoop her some ice cream and bring her right back. Glad the move went well.”

  “It could’ve been worse I suppose. It’s going to be an adjustment.” He sprinkles vinegar on his food and takes a bite of fish. “Mm, this tastes like it’s right out of Oxford.”

  “I’m glad you like it. ‘The Fox and Hound, a lovely and quaint establishment that is a small slice of our hometown, Oxfordshire, England,’” I say, quoting the first ever ad my parents made and have framed and immortalized by hanging it in the bar.

  He nods. “I think we might be eating here a lot. The moving company lost some of our items. Like kitchenware.”

  “Seriously? What are the odds of that happening?”

  “Well, when you want to figure how to get the odds, you first have to—”

  I put my hand up to stop him. “It was rhetorical.” I smile because I’m sure he probably does know the odds of the moving company losing a portion of his household goods.

  “Sorry, habit,” he tells me, shoving some of the extra crispy, crunchy chips to the side of his basket. I assume he’s relegating them to the don’t-eat zone.

  “Do you mind? These are my favorite.” After he shakes his head I nick a chip from the pile. He pushes his basket closer to me.

  “They not only lost my kitchen stuff but a good portion of my clothes. And Brinn and I have a big meeting on Friday.”

  I laugh and can’t help but say, “So, they did you a favor.”

  “Hey!” Feigning shock, he sits back against the chair and rubs his hands down a t-shirt that should have been banished to the rubbish bin years ago. Though I’ll give him credit; his jeans fit in all the right ways. “I like my clothes. They’re well loved.”

  “Mm, you do know I’m in fashion? I personal shop for people.” Here’s my chance to make a better impression. Not that it should matter or anything but funny enough, it does. I’ve wondered, since we met, what he must think of me. If Paisley has chatted about me as much as she’s done about him, he must struggle to reconcile his encounters with me to the picture she paints. I once read that first impressions can’t be undone and knowing he may think I’m a loon is difficult to accept.

  “Yes, but how is that going to help me? The last thing I want or have time to do is try on clothes. I’m confident nothing in your boutique will work for me.” He takes a drink of his beer and winks.

  “Did you understand me when I said I do some personal shopping?” I rise from my chair, quickly skirt around the bar, lift out two more beers, pop off the tops, all before going back to my seat. I hand him one.

  “Why don’t you clear it up for me?” He leans his chair back, tilting it up on the back legs a wee bit, and picks up the new beer, raises it up in a silent toast to me, and takes a swig.

  “I could get some clothes for you. You can unpack and get Cordie situated all while I’m restoring your
wardrobe.” I smile, push my basket away, and then lean back much like he is (with the exception of tilting my chair as the likelihood I’d tip over is guaranteed).

  “You would do that for me?” He rocks forward, leans toward me

  “Yes, because I love shopping for men. It’s one of my favorite things. Doing it for you would give me great pleasure. But you’ll have to trust me. Can you do that?” I silently pray for this opportunity to make a better impression.

  “Sure, but don’t go all pink and crazy patterns. I’m not that type of guy.” He runs a hand down the front of his black t-shirt.

  “When you say they lost your clothes, does that include your pants and socks too?”

  “Yeah. Shirts, pants...oh wait you mean...” He pulls out the waist of his jeans and glances to what’s underneath. Which is not just tighty-whiteys but rock-hard abs. I’d like to bounce a quarter off them as I’ve seen done in videos.

  “Yes, those too.”

  “How do I pay for this?”

  Still thinking of the abs, I struggle to get back on target. “Er, um... We can set a budget you’re comfortable with. You are a thirty-four, thirty-six, yes?”

  Surprised, he asks, “How did you know? Oh, right, fashion. Guess you’re something of an expert. I really only have what was in my suitcase, so I could use a good amount.” He seems to be pondering.

  I talk more for myself as I make a mental checklist but aloud in case I’m assuming too much. “You’ll need a few things for your meeting and some everyday clothes. But I’m also guessing you’ll need shoes and ties as well.” I don’t want to push him. I know nothing of his finances.

  He nods. “We have some really big meetings coming up. In person. I’m used to doing this through video streaming.”

  “You need a power suit. I know just the thing.” And it won’t be Hugo Boss or any of the like. That’s not the vibe I get from him and sending him into a meeting feeling awkward in clothing would be a fail on my part. Even if he’d look divine in a three-piece, double-breasted navy suit. “You mentioned paying. Typically, first-time clients give me a retainer on a card or something.”