My family was dirt poor. I didn't have a dad, only a revolving door of Mom’s seasonal predator boyfriends, so Mom had to work two jobs and side gigs. She only worked the two jobs because of me anyway, so I forgave her for being unable to save me. My sister, LeAnn, being more than eight years older than me, had left us behind as soon as she was old enough to claim emancipation. LeAnn was a one-upping bitch and still is to this day. But, until I met Charlotte, my mom was always the kindest person I had ever known. My mom deserves so much better. She always did. I could have stepped up to the plate and helped her out by getting a job right after high school. But no, I ran away to college to get out of that shitty going nowhere town in Georgia. I got out alright, but now I feel this never-ending ocean of guilt. Mom is gone. Now maybe I can take care of her.
I hug Charlotte, “I need to head upstairs to start prepping the room. Who knows what kind of debauchery is going to happen there tonight?”
Charlotte gives me another smile. I notice she's wearing the lipstick I bought her for her birthday, a cherry pink almost red shade that perfectly brings out the blush of her cheeks. It looks beautiful against her dark hair.
“Good luck tonight,’ she says
“Oh, I need it,” I say mockingly.
She gently takes me by my shoulders, “You look beautiful, and you’re one of the best servers in this restaurant. Just do what you do best, and you'll be fine.”
I turn to leave, and she slaps my ass. It rings through the entirety of my body. I choke on my spit. I give a not very debonair laugh, unable to control the fit of giggles. I say giggles because it's less cute and more like a buffoon’s guffaw, but I don't care.
“Get to work,” she says.
“I love you,” I tell her. I mean it with all my heart is what I don’t say. I hope she can hear the unspoken words.
“I love you, Ella -my love forever more.”
Chapter 9
I stand still, idly tapping my heels to pass the time as I rub my finger across the crescent scar on my right hand—a reminder of what I did all those years ago. I glance out the windows and balcony to the ocean below. Seagulls flap their wings, darting back and forth through the air, looking for free handouts. I suppose they’re a lot like me. The difference is that I'm willing to work for my scraps with what I've got.
I hear him before I see him. Expensive leather shoes pounding toward me. I do a double-take with a man for the first time in my life. He's enormous in height; I can tell even from afar. Beautiful Nordic blonde hair slicked back, long enough that it would surely hang down to his nose if it were untamed.
I wonder what it looks like ruffled up after night. His sculpted face etched from the Gods is clean-shaven. Merciless dark blue eyes under harsh, thick brows slice through me. His shoulders are broad, and layers of muscle try to escape his dark, crisp navy suit. He's a tall drink of delectable water on the hottest day dressed in multiple layers of blue on blue. He wears a custom Italian suit, button-down shirt, and tie. I’m swimming in his various shades of blue. Hell, he is even sporting a matching costly navy-colored watch.
Those blue eyes look like they feel nothing— like me. Only coolness radiates from this gentleman. I'm not usually affected by men, but this is different. My girlish gulp gets stuck in my throat. I’m being ridiculous. I attempt to retract my eyebrows from the top of my forehead and compose a neutral expression before trying a friendly smile that he doesn't return. He makes it to the table in no time. The long strides move him at an inhuman pace. Now that he has reached the dining table, I can tell he's over six feet: maybe six feet, four inches.
His body is slim down to his waist while still overcharged with muscle. He's not overly tan like everybody else near the beach in the Carolinas. Most of the men made of money around here look like little orange men. He's slightly pale but not sickly. It somehow works for him, notably since he's all Nordic looking. Viking is what comes to mind.
The gentleman seats himself. Full of composure, entirely in charge.
I smile again, “Hi, welcome to mist—,” and he cuts me off.
“I will take eight ounces of your best steak, preferably sirloin? I’d like it seasoned appropriately: salad, no dressing. No bread, no pasta. One bottle of your best champagne with citrus notes. I want it light and refreshing. Nothing heavy. Don't worry about the price. You need only to deliver it. No flourishing or floundering.”
“That's it,” he says after I don't move immediately.
“Anything else?” I ask out of habit, even though I could kick myself.
He raises one brow and gives me a look that says I'm the dumbest person he's met all week. I shake my head and say, “Sorry, Sir. Never mind.” I rush off before he can say anything else.
My face is hot enough to melt any kind of plastic. I feel about as plastic as a dumb doll. I can't believe I'm so flustered over a man. I give his order to the cook and wait for him to call on me because I don't have the nerve to return to him yet. He is not the typical client that comes here. He's not the ordinary guy. I don't know what he is. I'm not sure if I want to find out either.
A tingling feeling tugs at my mind, urging me to learn more about him because he seems so interesting. But the old Ella that cleaved into the new me berates me, saying I know better than to think I could be with any man. I mentally make a note, declaring I hate this Viking in a business suit. I’d never fuck someone as severe and self-serving as him. I shake my head. No, he has to be just like the rest. He is no different.
However, I'm a curious cat and always into something I shouldn't be. So, I make my way back to his table with his meal on hand. Eager to give it a second shot, “Here's your steak, salad, and champagne. Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?”
“It's Mr. North. That's what you can call me. Let me make this simple for you. I don't need chit-chat. You don’t need to make me feel better. I don't need you to make yourself feel better by thinking you have entertained me.”
He establishes that I shouldn’t fall for him. There is no way I’d ever be interested in this jerk. Every word that tumbles from his lips confirms the ever-consuming belief that I will never find someone like myself in a male companion.
He takes his knife and fork and begins cutting his steak.
“No need to act sluttier or try too hard. It isn't going to make you more money. You're going to receive what you’re entitled to earn. Money isn't a problem for me like it is for you. Do you understand, Charlotte?”
My eyebrows scrunch in confusion, “I'm not Charlotte. My name is Ella.” I bite my lower lip, an old habit of mine.