SIX
Thalia
THE SINK DRIPS DAY AND NIGHT. The floorboards squeak, the toilet lid won’t stay upright, and the shower splutters ice cold or boiling hot water.
Oh, and let’s not forget the smell—a stale, moldy odor soaks the air, impervious to every air freshener I found in the corner shop two streets over.
Refusing to crawl into the most-likely STD-infested bed, I spent my first day’s tips on a mattress protector, a blanket, and a pillow. Until then, I slept curled in a plastic chair, fully clothed.
Today and tomorrow are my days off. I can’t shake the feeling I’m wasting time sitting around, twiddling my thumbs instead of earning more money on the side so I can get out of the motel sooner than planned. With that in mind, I visit the corner shop, then sit on the floor in my room, skimming over this morning’s newspaper, searching the classified section for a waitressing or a cleaning job. The Greek Gods must be watching over me because my eyes stop on an ad for a private event catering company.
Waitresses needed. Twenty-five dollars an hour. Immediate start available.
Bingo.
“Good morning, I found your job ad for event waitressing.” I sit cross-legged on the floor, my back against the wall, a half-eaten bowl of cereal beside my leg.
“Yes, we’re always on the lookout for staff. Can you come by the office today to fill out the paperwork?”
“Of course. Can I have the address?”
“I’ll text you. Come by whenever.”
I expect a few questions before she invites me over, but she sounds desperate. I guess she’s short-staffed and that only works in my favor. The office is in the city center, four miles away. The sun is shining, the temperature outside around eighty degrees, so a walk it is.
After a quick shower, I tame my wet curls into a more manageable mess, slip into jean shorts, and yank a t-shirt over my head, leaving the room inside of five minutes. I’m pretty positive the motel stench will rub off on me if I linger too long, forcing me to shower again.
An hour and twenty minutes later, I step inside a tall, glass building in the heart of Newport Beach, where I’m greeted by an elderly man who sits behind a reception desk in the middle of an airy, modern lobby.
He wears a burgundy jacket that goes well with a head of white hair but brings to mind a bellhop. “Who are you here to see?” he asks, raising his gaze from a copy of some book.
“The event catering company.”
He grabs the phone, dialing a short number. “Someone’s here to see you.” He drums his fingers on the desk as I rock back and forth on the heels of my trainers. “Yes, no problem. I’ll send her in. He gestures toward the door to my left, setting the phone down. “Through there, then the third door on your right. Just knock and enter.”
“Thank you.”
I push the door open with both hands, my step bouncy as I emerge into a long, narrow hallway. One, two...knock, knock, knock,I go in as instructed.
“Hello, I’m—” The back end of that sentence hangs over the edge of a cliff and falls to its death when my eyes stop on a familiar face. “Oh...” I lean back, checking the company name on a silver plaque glued to the door. “Sorry, wrong door.”
Rows upon rows of shelves surround the office, housing what I think are hundreds of DVDs. Theo sits at a long desk equipped with five monitors—three in line and two above. A smile tugs at his lips, sending my heart fluttering all over the place. He makes me idiotically giddy. High on hormones whenever our eyes lock.
He crosses his muscular arms, slightly tilting his head up and to the side, exposing the porcelain column of his throat. I can’t look away from his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallows, curious eyes roving down my body in a slow, unblinking once-over. I’m instantly back in the hot seat, ruled by him and his presence.
My knees turn to jello, and the undeniable magnetism returns full force. I envision it as a lasso wrapped tightly around my waist, the spoke in Theo’s grasp. He pulls slowly, wrapping the rope around his wrist, drawing me closer.
He’s like a fine drizzle—the worst kind of rain. It patters everywhere at once, wets your hair, clothes, and face, prickling at the eyes and settling over eyelashes.
Theo pushes away from the desk, rolling out with his chair before standing tall. I take in the view, all six-foot-one of his broad-chested, muscle-packed frame dressed in black slacks and a preppy polo shirt, which struggles to contain said muscular chest. The same chest I was pressed flush against on Saturday evening when we danced inQ.
“Hey, stranger.” The timbre of his voice resonates deep and reverberates through my body. “Who are you here to see?”
“The event catering company. The receptionist said third door on the right.” I arch back again, counting the doors down the hall, taking the opportunity of no eye contact to get a hold of myself. “This is it, but—”
“Technically, it is the third door, but the first door you passed opens to a staircase. You want the next door.”
I readjust my bag as he steps closer, leaving just two feet of space between us. The scent of him, a rich, manly mixture of wood, smoke, and citrusy delight, is so complex I almost moan. Lime or bergamot, I think. And a hint of mint.