Bittersweet (3 page)

I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom, washing my face quickly with cold water and brushing my teeth, then attempting to drag a hairbrush through the long dark tangles that pass for my hair, pulling it into a high ponytail. I glance out the window at the already-bright sunshine, but it’s not even nine yet—the curse of being used to getting up early; anything past six a.m. feels like sleeping in. But I figure it’s early, so it can’t be too hot, right? I pull on some stretch running shorts, wrestle myself into a sports bra, and pull on the University of Virginia tee I got at the store when I visited the campus in senior year, stifling a sigh at what could have been as I check my reflection.

Still, I jog down the stairs and out of our building actually feeling pretty good. I was wrong about the heat though—a few blocks from the apartment and I’m already starting to sweat. I decide to head down to the riverside where it might be a little cooler, turning up my iPod and sipping water from my bottle as I squint against the morning sunshine. The grass glows emerald-green as I head toward the river, which sparkles invitingly. A memory of my mother taking me down here to swim as a little girl flashes into my mind, but I swat it away. That was a long time ago, and there aren’t too many happy memories following on behind it. I don’t want to ruin what’s starting out to be a pretty good day, so I pick up my pace and pound along the path in time to my music—until a van and people with director’s viewfinders block my path. That TV show,
again
? I slow down a little and look at the crew guys a little more closely, but none of them are tall enough to be that Greg guy I met yesterday. Which is fine. I don’t want to run into him anyway, especially not when I’m even sweatier than I was last night.

I swallow more water and jog around them quickly, but then almost collide with Mayor Castellano and his PA, who are striding over toward the TV van with fixed, grateful grins on their faces.

“Oh, excuse me, I’m sorry, Mayor,” I say, jogging on the spot.

“No, no, my fault, Cathy. In my own world there. Just going to glad-hand some of these TV execs. Tell your father I’ll be stopping by later for one of those bacon burgers,” he says, patting his ample stomach. I’m not sure his wife would be too happy with the idea, but I grin and wave anyway before I carry on with my run. I see a couple more guys with viewfinders and clipboards up toward the Nelson property as I run alongside the slow-moving river—it doesn’t surprise me that they might use it as a location. I remember thinking the house on the water, now owned by the Dogwood Historical Society, looked like a palace compared to our little home on Peyton Street, where my dad still lives with Carl. I know Joe doesn’t quite get why I moved out, but it’s hard enough living an adult life in the town you grew up in without your dad breathing down your neck at home as
well
as at work.

But even so, I decide to head back up into town and grab a coffee at the restaurant before I go home. Joe Johnson’s does a lot of things better than anywhere else around here, and coffee is one of them.

As I make a left and run back up past the pharmacy toward Main Street, I hear a familiar rumbling engine coming up behind me. I smile and pull my earbuds out, not breaking my stride as Hal’s beat-up truck pulls up alongside me. He leans out of the window, giving a low wolf-whistle and slowing down to a crawl.

“Yeah, that’s not at
all
creepy,” I say with a grin, but then I hear footsteps pounding up the sidewalk behind me, and then past me.

“Hi, Hal,” calls Sonya Thompson, former head-cheerleader, and a woman still clearly committed to being cuter than everyone in the surrounding area. She ignores me, of course.

“Oh, hey, Sonya,” Hal replies.

She jogs away in her crop top and minuscule shorts, her dark-blonde hair bouncing, her body barely perspiring. I swipe at my drenched brow and shake my head, but Hal just chuckles. I narrow my eyes at him, but I guess I can’t blame her for flirting—he’s rolled his overalls down to the waist because of the heat so he’s just in his wife-beater, and I swear his arms get bigger every time I see them. Sometimes I think if we weren’t buddies, he’d be a pretty good plan B… But that would be kind of like dating Carl. I grimace internally. Besides, Hal’s something of a man-skank. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Sonya have been hooking up lately and he’s too scared to tell Max and me.

“Heading to the auto shop?” I ask, panting.

“Yeah. Want a ride home first?”

I gesture to my sneakers. “Would kind of defeat the purpose, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, C, you look good to me already,” he says with a smile. “Who needs exercise?”

I ignore
his
flirting. “Believe me,” I say in between breaths, “if Sonya Thompson does, then
I
sure as hell do. Aren’t you going to be late for work, anyway?”

He shrugs, and we both glance back as a car honks its horn and passes Hal’s truck. I guess I’m not running fast enough for the traffic.

“Hector knows I’m his best mechanic,” Hal says, ignoring the guy in the car. “He doesn’t care if I’m a few minutes late.”

“Wish my boss was that soft,” I say, and we both laugh.

“Hey, I saw Mindy Carver last night—”

“Last night, huh?” I interject with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah. Anyway, she’s going to start teaching over at the high school in fall, and she says they’ll be setting up the TV production office over there for the next few weeks. They’re going to shoot there and everything. Don’t you think it will be crazy to see Dogwood High on TV?”

“I guess so.” I shrug and pick up my pace. “Hey, you better get going. I’m not paying your ticket if the cops give you a traffic violation.”

“Hah. I’ll see you later, Cath.”

“Yeah—and you should give that thing a tune-up while you’re at work, huh?” I gesture to his rust-bucket and he laughs.

“Don’t insult my baby.”

“Bye, Hal.”

He pulls off, honking his horn, and I laugh as the strains of “La Cucaracha” echo away down the street. I finally slow down as I reach the corner where the restaurant is, and do some stretches outside before I head in. I hope my father listened to me and finally took the day off as well, and as I look around the restaurant floor and into the kitchen, I’m pleased to see no sign of him.

“Hey, Bobby,” I call through the pass. “Joe’s not in, is he?”

“Nope.”

“Good,” I murmur, then smile at Jenna as she strides past, tucking her pencil behind her ear.

“Coffee, hon?” she asks, already heading over to the machine.

I nod, but then do a double-take when I see a figure with long limbs and a mop of dark hair sitting at the end of the counter.

Shit.
Shit
.

I reach up to my own hair and attempt to smooth my flyaways. I’m almost certain I have sweat patches. Giant, damp, gross sweat patches. There’s no salvaging this look. Maybe he won’t notice me? Of course, the minute I think that, he looks up and finds me staring right at him. My stomach does a weird lurch.

“Oh. Hey,” he says.
Hey
again? But that voice… Nonchalant. Low. Sexy.

“Hi,” I manage.

“Cathy, right?”

I nod. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember without the name tag,” I retort without thinking. Why did I say that?

He looks at me for an agonizing moment, then gives a short, velvety laugh, and I sag with relief.

“No, I remember,” he says quietly, then takes a breath. “I was actually just telling the lovely Jenna here about the sterling job you did drumming up my business last night.” He turns and smiles over at my fellow waitress, blinking those baby blues. How did that sound like both an innuendo and an insult? Jenna sets my cup of coffee down on the counter with a giggle.

“You want a refill?” she asks Greg.

“Not just yet, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? Normally Jen would fling a burning bra at a guy trying to charm her like that, but for some ridiculously good-looking reason, she lets that one slide.

“Uh, I actually was thinking I’d get that to go…” I begin, pointing to my coffee, but Jenna’s already heading off to her next table. I’m forced to move closer to where Greg is perched, with a half-eaten plate of breakfast in front of him. Why oh why did I pick today of all days to start running again? I try to smell myself subtly, but that’s just weird, so I stop and edge the coffee over to me while trying not to raise my arm too much.

“So you’re not working today?” he asks offhandedly, eyes on his food.

He looks over when I don’t say anything, and I glance down at my sweaty running gear then back up at him, raising an eyebrow. He hasn’t shaved today, and for some reason that makes his cheekbones look even more—
Stop it, Cathy.

“Obviously not,” Greg answers himself in a murmur, and I feel kind of bad. I take a sip of my coffee as a distraction, and decide I probably shouldn’t just stand up and drink it, so I edge onto a stool.

“Uh,” I begin eloquently. “You’re not working either? I saw some TV people down by the riverside…” I add, fishing for info.

“Oh, I’m not needed for a few days. They’re still setting up some of the other production stuff,” he replies, and then shoves a forkful of food in his mouth. How is it possible that he even looks good when he chews? So he
is
part of the
Bittersweet
crew then.
Just passing through
, I remind myself.

He swallows. “Mmm,” he mutters, nodding at the plate like it asked him a question. “This is
damn
good.”

Bobby glances over at us as he rings the bell for another order up. “Hey, Cathy, your friend there ordered your special,” he calls with a wink.

“You came up with this?” Greg asks. “The peppers with the eggs? It’s good. Real good.”

“Well, Bobby’s the one who actually made—”

“Yeah, our girl knows her grub,” Bobby interjects. I flush a little—because more sweat is what’s needed here, obviously. “Her dad owns this place,” Bob adds helpfully, and Greg turns to face me.

“No kidding?”

I shrug, then decide I should probably try and use words. “Yup.”

A warm smile unexpectedly spreads across his face, making his eyes sort of sparkle. I try and focus on not dribbling my coffee out of my mouth.

“My father and brothers run a bakery in Brooklyn. Best ciabatta in the borough. Dad wanted me to follow in his footsteps too, but I—” He breaks off suddenly as the cell phone he’s placed next to his orange juice begins to vibrate. I can’t help glancing down at the screen, and see “B” flash up before he shuts it off without answering. He frowns a little and seems distracted from what he was going to say, so I take the opportunity to glug down my coffee.

“I should probably get going,” I announce, and Greg glances up distractedly, his brow still creased.

“OK,” he murmurs again, his sparkle gone.

I stand up and take my coffee cup through to the rack of dirties, then head back around the counter and grab my water bottle, calling goodbye to Bobby and Jenna. I glance over at Greg, and this time I catch
him
looking at
me
. My heart stutters a little, and I open my mouth to say goodbye, trying to calculate if “see you around” sounds too much like I really hope I do—but he looks away again, calling over to Jenna.

“You know, I think I’m ready for that refill now, sweetheart.”

Greg’s eyes flick back to mine for a moment, but then his jaw clenches, like it did before he went off to the hotel without saying thank you. His reticence should be annoying—but I find myself thinking about how he changed when he talked about his family bakery, breaking into actual run-on sentences even. I like to think I know a defense mechanism when I see it. Borderline-rudeness could just be one of the weapons in his arsenal. Or maybe I just don’t want it to be his real personality…

“See you later,
sweetheart
,” I say to Jenna as she edges past.

She nudges me with her hip. “
He
can call me whatever he likes,” she whispers as she sidles over to fill his cup.

I sigh and head toward the door as Greg leans over the counter to talk to her, and no doubt check out her name-tag area. I try to tell myself I’m not jealous. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jenna’s more his type anyway. She’s beautiful and sassy and… Anyway, I’m bad at flings, and that’s all he would ever be, if anything at all. I’ve barely said two words to him. Why should I even care?

I head outside and shove my buds back in my ears, deciding I may as well jog back to the apartment, work off some of this new-found tension. I bend over to stretch and loosen up my muscles … but as I straighten up, I see Greg watching me again through the window. Oh, man, he’s probably getting a flashback to what he saw outside the station. I get a sudden, unexpected image in my mind; his hands on my hips as he stands behind me, his fingers curling around my waist, then slipping down over the curve of my—

The corner of his mouth curls up ever so slightly, like he read my mind. Heat flashes over my skin. I bite my lip, take a deep breath, but he turns away, returning his attentions to Jenna. I swallow, hard.

Like I said, I’m not jealous. Not at all.

I run the shower hard and check my reflection in the mirror before I get undressed, horrified at the makeup-less, frizzy-haired, sweaty mess that greets me. Jeez, no wonder Jenna was the one who got that Greg guy’s full-flirt. Right now I couldn’t attract a fridge if I was a magnet.

But as I step under the spray, I remind myself that
nobody’s
going to get into me if I don’t get into myself. I smile a little at the potential double meaning of that statement, and try not to think about it—or Greg—while I shower. Anyway, maybe I shouldn’t be so against the idea of something fun with no commitment. It’s summer, and it’s not like I’ve got a vacation coming my way any time soon. Even if Greg the New Yorker isn’t going to be the one providing a little break from my usual Dogwood life, I’m certain there’s someone out there I could find to, ahem,
get into me
. With all these new guys arriving in town, there’s no reason to get fixated on one tall, blue-eyed, inscrutable—

Ugh.