Claiming Callie: Part one (7 page)

This man—with his shining bald head, his old-man spectacles, his bug eyes, and falsified age—has the nerve to belittle someone else?

Callie swallows the bite of steak and opens her mouth to say something, but is beat out by the waiter, who stops in front of them and asks what they need.

Rick’s large eyes bulge behind his glasses like the waiter must be daft. “What I need is some fettuccini that isn’t watered down! Did you even put cheese in this?”

Callie’s forehead furrows as she watches, unsure whether he’s joking.
Is this for real?

She slinks down in her chair as the waiter clears his throat, his face now the shade of a ripe strawberry. He stutters a moment, then says, “Um. Well, I didn’t cook it, but it looks like you finished most of it…” His voice trails off as Rick’s face tightens and lines of displeasure encapsulate his mouth.

“Are you trying to say that I’m making it up?” Rick narrows his eyes and throws the cloth napkin from his lap onto the table. “You’re calling me a liar. This is just unacceptable. Where’s your manager? I need these meals paid for.”

Callie glances around to see that most of the patrons in the restaurant are now staring at them. Rick continues to argue, throwing a couple of insults in for good measure, and she just wants to die.

In fact, crawling under the table to hide is looking like a better option by the second.

When the waiter skulks off, he turns to her. “Incompetence!” He shakes his head. “This happens to me all the time.”

Callie points to the table. “You do this all the time?”

“Hey, no one should have to put up with crap service or crap food.”

So this is how he must justify paying an escort. He gets all his meals paid for!

Callie gestures toward his plate. “But he’s right. You scarfed down almost all of that in record time. You can’t possibly expect them to pay for it. And…and you were
so
rude.”

Rick stabs a finger at his chest. “I was rude?
I
was rude? Did you hear the way that guy spoke to me?”

Callie flinches at the spray of spittle that hits her in the face. With a grimace, she picks up her napkin and wipes herself off, and before she can say anything further, the manager shows up. As Rick begins filling him in on how horrible the establishment is, Callie slinks out of her chair and away from the table. She scurries off, face burning as the other diners’ eyes follow her. Without looking back, she runs for the sanctuary of the restroom and slams the door behind her. She leans against the door before darting to the sinks, where she runs her hands under cool water, then presses them to her flaming cheeks.

What a complete jerk! Oh my God. How am I going to go back out there? I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.

Still gripping the sink, she glances up at herself in the mirror and studies her reflection, but something catches her eye. A window.

Could I? I
so
could!

Turning, Callie moves her gaze about the room, trying to figure out how she can reach the window. Realizing that using the toilet as a step stool is the only way, Callie marches right up to the stall and gingerly places one high-heeled foot on the rim of the toilet. Her ankle wobbles, her shoes slip, and she nearly breaks both her legs trying to climb onto the water tank.

The one time I should’ve worn flats!

Placing her hands on the windowsill, just above chest height, she pulls herself up. Half-hanging from the sill, she kicks her legs wildly, trying to find something, anything to push off of to give herself more leverage.

If someone walks in right now and sees me, I’ll die.

Her foot hits the metal frame of the stall door, and she’s able to use it to anchor her foot and push herself up the rest of the way to the windowsill. Placing one foot in front of the other, she squats on the narrow ledge and takes a deep breath.

Head first or feet first?

“Feet first. It’s always the way to go,” a voice says behind her.

Callie turns and nearly falls from her perch. A middle-aged brunette stands at the sink, a grin brightening her round face. “Trust me. At fifty and still single, I’ve had lots of experience with this. Always go feet first.”

Chuckling, Callie mutters her thanks and slides open the window, then grips the edge until her knuckles turn white, and places all her weight on her right leg while stretching her left one outside of the window. The ledge digs into her butt as she straddles the windowsill and manages to put her remaining leg outside of it. Slowly, she slides herself out and hangs by her arms, feeling the strain of holding her weight in her muscles before she lets go and falls the last couple feet to the ground with a grunt. Dusting herself off, she glances around.

Whew. At least no one was watching.

“Better get moving. You definitely don’t want him to catch you out there,” the woman from inside calls.

Callie doesn’t need a second warning. With as much grace as she can manage, she sprints the rest of the way to her car.

*        *        *

She calls Jinny but can’t get her at the apartment. Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she tries to busy her mind as she drives. A headache blooms above her brow line, a product of her mood’s quick shift from horror and embarrassment at Rick’s outburst, to exhilarated after fleeing the restaurant, now to despair. Thus far, her first two dates have been a bust, which makes her question whether her escort scheme will even work. Maybe it’s just a rabbit hole? And maybe meeting her deadline for GGF is a lost cause?

You’re getting paid for these dates. Does it really matter that they’re horrible?

Try excruciating. How long can I do this?

As long as you’re getting paid big bucks!

She sighs, trying to suppress the internal argument. What she needs is something to lift her spirits, brighten her day. Then everything will be okay. She won’t feel so awful and she can move on with her next scheduled date—no problem.

She stops at a red light and glances around her. Everything is dreary and gray with the end-of-January freeze. Even the shops look dark and dismal. And as she takes in the city streets, she finds herself, like she does every January, wishing for the thaw of spring.

Her wandering eyes freeze on a display for a store she’s never noticed before. She cranes her neck to get a better view ahead. The bright-red and black sign is like a well in the middle of the Sahara. It reads, “Cherry Bottom’s Boutique.”

Oooh. Is that new? It looks cute.

The light turns green and she finds herself driving straight, toward the shop, when she should be making a left turn instead. Pulling into one of the storefront parking spaces, she gleefully takes in the balloons and the small sign next to the door that boasts, “Grand Opening Sale.”

She gasps and her eyes roam the display window, already zooming in on something she likes. The short-sleeved sweater on the mannequin is the perfect thing for in between seasons.

And is that cashmere?

Before Callie can stop herself, she’s slamming her car door and entering the small store with the excitement of a child. Wide, crazed shopper eyes take in her surroundings—the clothes, handbags, scarves, even handmade soaps and lotions—and she feels her sour mood dissipate.

Yes, I can do this whole dating thing.

She feels the weight of the cash from Rick in her purse punctuate her thoughts, and before she can reel herself in, her gaze lands on a rack of sweaters like the one she saw in the storefront window.

CHAPTER FOUR

DEAN

The morning rush at Buzz subsides, giving Dean a chance to rest his feet. He picks a corner table and sits down with his iced coffee. Thanks to Jinny blowing off work this morning—for what, he has no idea, except that it’s probably not a good enough reason—he’s been stuck with chatty Sara, the gangly sixteen-year-old who has a crush on him the size of Texas.

He glances over to the counter she’s supposed to be cleaning. Instead, she’s leaning her elbows on it, staring at him with a dreamy expression.

Shit.

He gives her a tight-lipped smile, then angles his body farther away from her. What he really wants to be doing this morning is beating the shit out of himself at the gym. A little self-abuse is the only thing that will help him get his mind back from the never-ending-depths that are Callie. But thanks to his sister, he’s working instead.

I’m going to make her pay for this.

The door jingles, an interruption to his tortured thoughts, and in walks Emmett. He smiles at Dean, then does a double take and frowns when his gaze lands on Sara. He picks up his pace and comes to a stop in front of him.

“Have a seat, brother,” Dean says, shoving a chair out from the table with his foot.

Emmett hooks his thumb toward the counter. “Where’s Jinny? I thought she worked today.”

“Yeah. So did I.”

Sighing, Emmett takes a seat. “I guess I can settle for you.”

Dean flutters his lashes and raises his voice an octave. “Why, thank you, darlin’. Am I every bit as perty?”

“You do have her smile.” Emmett grins, then straightens his face and reaches a hand out to touch Dean’s hair. “And your hair. It’s so soft.” He leans forward and sniffs. “And that smell… Is it Polo mixed with BO? It’s quite lovely. The perfect combo.”

Dean shakes his head. “Dude, you’re so gay.”

“Never mind. I don’t like your attitude. And I’m a sucker for brown eyes. The blue just don’t do it for me.” Emmett snickers and leans back in his chair. “So, what’s up, Romeo? Haven’t seen you since Hemingway’s the other night, and you were pretty tight-lipped about this girl you’re infatuated with. Any news there?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Dude, come on. You’re seriously not gonna tell me who she is or what’s going on? I’ve been your friend forever.”

“Uh, it’s been six years of your questionable friendship, and no, I’m not gonna tell you.” Dean takes a sip of his iced coffee and folds his hands over his stomach. Ever since his one-on-one match with Jason last week, Emmett’s been badgering him about his “lady woes.” But telling Emmett would be a mistake. After all, he’s trying to get her
out
of his head, and if he talks about her with Emmett, it’d be like fanning the flames.

“You’re such a dick,” Emmett says, then purses his lips. Dean can practically see the wheels spinning as he zones off. “If you’re not talking about her, then this
thing
for her must be pretty serious. I haven’t seen you this hung up on someone since…” Emmett trails off before his eyes light up. “Naw. Please tell me it isn’t…”

Dean slinks down farther in his seat and takes another sip of his drink, his cheeks heating.

Okay, so maybe the fact that Emmett would rag on me is another reason I haven’t told him.

“Naw, naw, naw, man! Seriously? Not to sound like a chick, but, like, seriously? You’re still all strung up on Callie, aren’t you? What’s it been, like a bazillion years she hasn’t noticed you now?”

Dean shoots forward in his seat. “Shut up,” he hisses, then glances around as if someone might have heard him in the empty café.