Bittersweet (13 page)

Ugh! I shake my head vigorously. So what? I can’t let a couple of nice things cloud the fact that I hardly even know the guy—and that so far Greg has mainly demonstrated that he’s an asshole. Kinda. Maybe. Sort of.

* * *

If it seemed quiet on Monday, by mid-week word seems to have gotten around that JJ’s has a ridiculously handsome new employee, because today it seems like every female in Dogwood under the age of thirty—and a lot who are over—has decided that it’s the place to eat. I watch Greg back away from bussing a table, smiling nervously at the group of tween girls who are grinning at him through their braces.

“The kid’s kind of popular, huh?” Bobby says as I hand in an order. “Girls are looking at him the way they used to look at me back in the day,” he adds with a grin, and I roll my eyes.

“Sure, Bob,” I say, chuckling.

“Well,
he
sure has an eye for
you
,” Bobby teases, watching for my reaction. I purse my lips, but try not to make him think it’s too big a deal that he’s noticed. I do feel Greg’s eyes on me sometimes. It’s not even like I see it; I really do …
feel
him.

A couple of hours later and I sigh with relief as Greg finishes up his “shift” for the evening while I’m out front on break, chatting with Maxi as she has her one cigarette. She narrows her eyes as we watch him shove his hands into his pockets and stride away down the road, not seeing us.

“I don’t know how you do it, being around him and all these knives. I’d have cut his dick off by now, and said it was an accident,” Maxine says, exhaling her smoke in his direction like it was a weapon.

“Jeez, Maxi. It’s cool, we’ve moved on.” I’ve been struggling to tap into the reserves of anger I hoped would carry me through the week without feeling this growing sense of longing…

“Well,
he
definitely has,” Max says, pointing with her cigarette between her fingers. I can still see Greg, further up the road now, standing outside Mulligan’s. A tall, slender brunette sashays up to him, her hair bouncing infuriatingly. But as they face each other, I see Bethany push her sunglasses off her face and fold her arms. Greg shrugs and then says something to her. She shakes her head exasperatedly, and he looks away.

“Huh.” Maxine is clearly thinking the same thing I’m thinking. Greg and Bethany pretty much look like they’re having an argument. I take a couple of deep breaths to calm the pathetic excitement in my chest. Bethany takes a step toward Greg and seems to be trying to change his mind about something, touching his bicep, but he shoves his hands back in his pockets, says something more, and then turns and leaves. Bethany doesn’t go after him. I see Bethany pull her cell from her bag and push her sunglasses back down onto her face as she strides away quickly.

Max looks over at me, and I must have an expression on my face that’s a little hopeful—or at least gloating—because she shakes her head vigorously as she puts out her cigarette.

“Uh uh. Don’t even think it, missy,” she says to me sternly.

“What?” I say innocently, and then tell her my break’s over as she purses her lips at me with a knowing, but slightly worried, smile.

Maybe I’m worried too. This could get dangerous…

“Seemed a little less busy tonight,” I hear Greg say, and I glance over at him and Bobby as Greg rinses off the last of the dishes to load in the washer. I’m not sure if they’ve noticed me on the other side of the pass. Bob wipes his hands down his apron and shrugs.

“Yeah, it’s Rita Castellano’s sweet sixteen tonight, so I think all your teenage fan club members are over at the mayor’s mansion, along with half the town,” he says, grinning. Greg shuffles a little uncomfortably, but he returns Bobby’s smile. God, his face really does burst into light when he—

“Night, Cathy,” Bob calls, and I turn crimson—great, they’ve caught me eavesdropping. “You’re good to lock up?” he says with a grin.

“Um, yeah, of course,” I say, ringing out the cash register loudly to cover the slight quaver in my voice. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Big plans tomorrow for your night off?” he asks as he heads out the door. I shake my head. “Hey, New York, now you’re all done with your acting practice here, you should take the lady out for a drink,” Bob calls over his shoulder with a wink.

“Goodnight, Robert,” I say sternly, and I hear his laugh as he heads out into the darkness. The other wait staff have already gone too, and Joe’s a guest of the mayor tonight, so it’s just me and Greg left at the restaurant. Alone. In the low, romantic light. With the sound of the crickets chirping outside, and the feel of his eyes on me…

“You really didn’t have to stay for the whole shift tonight,” I say, my voice sounding too high and loud in the quiet of the restaurant. He comes around from the kitchen and pulls his cell out of his back pocket so he can sit up at the counter as I cash out the register. He’s right; it was quiet tonight, judging by a quick look at the takings. I sigh a little.

“I wanted to, seeing as it’s my last night. I’ve really appreciated everybody being so nice,” he says. His voice is deep and warm, like I could melt into it. I swallow, trying not to think again about the fact that we’re on our own.

“Well, Joe told me he didn’t expect some Hollywood kid to turn up and work quite so hard,” I tell him, smiling wryly. Greg chuckles and looks embarrassed once more. It’s a pretty sexy look on him.

“Guess it’s because I’m a Brooklyn kid not a Hollywood kid,” he replies.

“Yeah, I guess so. Well, you sure had me fooled, at least.”

Tension descends between us, and I almost regret the jibe. Almost—until his cell starts to vibrate on the countertop and I see “B” flash up on the screen again. I can’t help suspecting that B is for Bethany, and then I can’t help clenching my teeth in irritation. He shuts it off quickly.

“Never seem all that keen to answer her calls, huh?” I say snidely, testing, and his eyes snap up to mine.

“What?” he says, his voice tight and his eyes wide.

“You know what, it’s none of my business anyway,” I say, holding up my hands and resuming my count quickly. I should get out of here.

“No, I’m sorry I… I’m just tired.” He exhales and rolls his shoulders, and I try not to stare as his muscles flex. “I forgot how exhausting this kind of work can be,” he says. “My dad would be horrified at me being tired after a week’s honest work though. Being here actually reminded me a lot of my family, being back home. It felt good.”

I smile, still looking down at what I’m doing, but the intimate look in his eyes when I glance up from the bills and see him staring at me makes me lose my count, and I have to start again.

Greg blows out some air and stands up. He moves around the room, turning over some of the chairs that hadn’t been put up onto the tables so that the floor can get mopped in the morning. I can’t help feeling like he’s hanging around deliberately, but I can’t say I mind having company—especially his. It can be a little creepy here after closing.

“So… This week wasn’t a complete waste of time then?” I ask, cutting into the quiet, and he looks over at me.

“I’d never consider time spent with you wasted, Cathy.”

His voice is as quiet and intense as his vivid-blue gaze when he speaks, and I have to force myself to close my jaw before I close the cash register.

“That’s… That’s sweet of you to say.” My voice quavers a little, and I take a breath. “But I thought we kind of agreed—”

“Yeah, I know.” He looks down and sighs. “I know.” He repeats it like he’s trying to remind himself. His smile is tired and beautiful and seductive and tentative… I notice my hands are trembling as I hold the cash box, ready to take it through to the back. When I don’t say anything, he takes a step closer, leaning over toward me from the other side of the counter.

“Listen, Cathy, what I said was true. I think it’s better if we’re just friends. But one thing’s been bothering me.”

I swallow, unsure what that thing might be. “Oh,” is all I can think of to say.

His eyes roam the room awkwardly before they meet mine again. “I never got a chance to apologize to you for leaving like that. It was… I don’t want you to think that I don’t respect you, or that what happened was … meaningless. It meant a lot—to me, I mean. Things are just—”

“Complicated,” I whisper, finishing his sentence again, and he nods, blowing out a breath. “I get it,” I say quietly, fighting between irritation and desperate need. I can hear my pulse in my ears, like a drum resonating under water, but I manage to look him in the eye, because I want him to know I mean this. “Thank you.”

He sighs, and then stifles a yawn, and I smile.

“I guess in the baking trade it’s more of a sunrise thing than a midnight thing,” I say, and he laughs. It bounces off the walls and back to me deliciously.

“Yeah. I think I’ve been spoiled, with the acting. Even with the play I was doing before I came here, matinees were at two. I got used to sleeping in,” he replies. I suddenly think about lying in the hotel bed, face to face with him in the lamplight…

“So, um, other than being able to sleep late, what made you ditch the family trade for acting?” I ask, hoping to distract my mind from where it was headed.

Greg’s mouth twists into something between a grimace and a smile. He seems to think for a moment before he speaks. “I was sort of an emotional kid. As my fifth-grade teacher used to say, I was ‘given to extremes,’” he says, laughing a little. “If I was happy, I was
super
happy, if I was sad I got
super
low. And if I was angry…” He trails off, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment before he continues. “But the first time I stepped out on a stage, it was like—
this
is what I need, this is where I can use it all. It was like a lightbulb went on.”

His face seems illuminated just talking about it, and I can’t help smiling along with his memories. But then he looks down at the counter, his expression falling a little.

“My dad, though? He’s … a cards-close-to-the-chest kind of guy. He didn’t get it. I was sort of the odd kid out in our family, and I didn’t like that, so eventually I guess I started to be more like him, keeping things inside. Unless I was playing a part.
Then
I was … free. But even so, Dad just never liked the idea of my acting—the whole thing was too intangible for him. He was really pissed about me leaving the business. He doesn’t think acting is a real job.” Greg exhales and shakes his head with a small smile. “He might be right. But when I started getting cast more, I had an out. And now, with this
Bitterswee
t gig… That’s another reason I really need this to work. To prove to him I can make it, you know?”

I’m still staring as he finishes speaking, seeing both the overemotional kid and the bottled-up man as I look at him. I’d never really thought of acting as a release. Is that what my mother wanted, too? I bite the inside of my cheek, and his eyes meet mine. He seems kind of embarrassed, but his gaze is unwavering, and I smile a little shyly myself. I feel like he’s revealed something to me he’s only really thought about to himself.

“I guess we all just want our folks’ approval, huh?” I say quietly. “For me it’s tough because I don’t want Joe to think I don’t believe he’s good at what he does—he’s the best. It’s just frustrating that he won’t let me prove
my
ideas are good too.”

Greg nods, but then I glance over at the tally for the specials and give a wry laugh.

“What?” he asks, but without the tension he had in his voice last time he said it.

“Oh just… Irony,” I reply with a grin. “I managed to sneak my new pasta dish on the menu tonight and it looks like it went down pretty well.” I show him the number of orders, and from his expression I can tell he’s trying not to say something. I raise my eyebrows at him questioningly.

“Yeah. I tried it, and it was really good, but…”

“But? But! Seriously?” I say, my eyes widening. “Come on, out with it!”

Greg’s baby blues start to do that irresistible twinkle again. “Well… Jeez, I’m just remembering how you dealt with that guy at the Canal, so I’m a little scared here.” I mock-scowl, and he continues. “But I feel like I owe it to the good Marino name to mention that my mother makes the best Pasta alla Norma in the five boroughs, and it’s a lot like your dish. Well, ingredients-wise at least. And, uh, I make the second best.”

I fold my arms. “Huh. Between your dad’s ciabatta and your mom’s pasta, those New Yorkers had better watch out,” I retort.

“You remember me saying that?” he asks with a corner of his mouth turned up, leaning over the counter again. I lean back a little.

“It wasn’t that long ago,” I mutter. That, and the fact that I’ve committed pretty much every conversation we’ve had to memory. “Anyway, hold up—I thought they said your last name was
Moran
?”

He shakes his head. “Marino. But my agent said it sounded too ‘ethnic’ so they changed it,” he says with a scoff in his voice. “One more thing for my dad to be pissed off about.” His mouth twists, I think with some regret.

I take a breath. “Well, Mr.
Marino
,” I say, setting the cash box down and gesturing toward the fridges in the kitchen. “We’ve got pasta, we’ve got eggplant, we’ve got time, and I’m hungry. Prove it.” I fold my arms again challengingly, and he grins. Slowly, he walks around the counter to head into the kitchen. As he nears me, I find my arms unfolding, reaching back behind me to clutch the counter edge as though I need to steady myself, which has the effect of pressing my chest forward. He stands in front of me, his eyes roaming down my body as it arches toward him.

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” he says in a low voice, only the hint of a smile on his lips.

I exhale shakily as he moves into the kitchen, grabbing out pots and pans and ingredients. He’s obviously become familiar enough with the kitchen over the week that he knows where most things are, and he begins to cook with easy grace. I slip up onto the kitchen counter in the middle of the room, watching him and feeling like we’re doing something forbidden. If Bobby saw me sitting up on his work surface he’d kill me. I smile, and Greg glances over at me on my perch as he slices the garlic.