Page 7 of Middle Ground
“Here you go.”
A glass of water slides across the tabletop. It’s in one of those cutesy glasses that’s made to look like a Mason jar. My gaze trails up a slender arm and to the face that belongs to that pretty voice.
The first thing I notice is startling blue eyes. They’re clear and bright like water from a melting glacier. She has a heart-shaped face, and a prominent Cupid’s bow on pink lips. A gem glints from where her nose is pierced.
My eyes involuntarily follow the curves of her body. I note the way her black v-neck shirt dips to reveal ample cleavage. In her jeans, her hips flare in the most delicious way, and I itch to settle my hands there.
When she brings her right hand up to tease out a tangle in her long blonde hair, I notice a small tattoo on the side of her wrist. Her movements are quick, but I think I catch it—a strawberry.
My tongue flits out, wetting my bottom lip. It’s not often I indulge my attractions. Work keeps me plenty busy, so there isn’t much time for eating or sleeping. Much less socializing in the hopes of finding someone to spend the night with.
But for once in my adult life, I don’t have work to think about. And something tells me this woman would be the sweetest kind of indulgence.
“Anything else I can get you?” she asks.
“No, I think that’s all.” She turns, ready to walk away, but then I change my mind. “Actually, wait.”
Before I can think better of it, my fingers are closing around her wrist.Shit. We both look down at my offence at the same time. I’m not the guy that manhandles waitresses.
“Sorry,” I apologize, retracting my hand. “I just meant to ask you a question.”
Her lips quirk. She rests back on the edge of a nearby table, bracing her beverage tray on her thighs. It’s inexplicable, but I find the action to be sexy as hell.
“Ask away.”
“What’s your favourite thing about working here?”
I can’t help myself—it’s the analyst in me. My career may be on pause for the time being while my body gets its shit together, but I can’t turn off the part of my brain that thrives on data.
At my question, something ignites in her gaze. She juts her chin in the direction of outside. “We’re right off the highway,” she says, “so we see a lot of people passing through. Mostly truckers during the winter, and a slew of tourists during the holidays and in the summer. I like hearing their stories. How much alimony they pay their ex wives; that time they stole an overpriced pair of jeans; how they’re still in love with the one that got away.”
“People truly offer up personal information to you like that?”
“Nothing beats confiding in a stranger you’ll never see again.” She shrugs. “Sometimes, I’m the most human interaction these people see all week. Makes them feel good to connect with me. And I like to connect with them, too.”
I take a sip of my water. My nose twitches. It tastes kind of…fishy. Nothing like the sparkling water I usually get at restaurants in the city.
“A regular extrovert,” I say.
At this, she grins. “Or I’m just really nosy,” she counters. “Like this. What brings you to town?”
I chuckle. “Business.”
“My God,pleasespare me the details. My delicate sensibilities can’t handle all this talking.”
The smile I wear stretches my lips impossibly wide. “Fine. Maybe you can put your connections to good use and help me out. Give me an inside scoop,” I say. “I have ameeting with a lawyer and someone named Meyer Ellison tomorrow morning.”
At this, her demeanour changes completely. Gone is her smile. Instead, her eyes narrow on me. “No, you don’t.”
Her tone takes me aback. “Uh… Yes, I do. I’ve been emailing him for a couple weeks now.”
She hums. “I think it’s time I introduce myself,” she says. She sets her tray on the empty table behind her and unties her apron. Then she sticks out her hand. “Meyer Ellison, soon-to-be owner of Dog Days Inn. And the woman you absolutely donothave a meeting with tomorrow morning. Or any morning, for that matter.”
Fuck. Two epic blunders in the span of one goddamn conversation.You’ve lost your touch, Vaughan.
I stand from my seat and tuck my hand into hers. Her grip is firmer than I expect, but I suppose at this point, I should throw all my preconceived notions out the window. “Jackson Vaughan,” I say.
Meyer settles into the chair opposite me. I retake my seat, eyes still on her.
