The Dance (36 page)

I had to get out of there before the tears cranked back up or I crawled in his lap and kissed him unconscious. Luckily, Hart’s intercom beeped, snapping some sense into my head.

“Hart, you have a call on line two.”

With my hand on the doorknob, I said, “I’ll see you later.”

“I want a full report on the interview.”

We swapped smiles one more time just before Hart picked up his phone and I walked out the door.

On the drive home I made a concerted effort not to overthink the moment in Hart’s office . . . or the way he looked at me . . . or how his body felt . . . or that he smelled my hair. Instead, I was going to soak up the feeling of the moment and the excitement of getting the interview.

Lying awake last night, I thought about what to wear in case by some miracle I did get an interview. I chose my black and white Houndstooth pencil skirt, a black long-sleeve silk blouse, and my black leather boots. Makeup was subtle, hair was down, and jewelry was minimal. The look was simple, classic, professional, and sophisticated without being snooty.

Good Eats was one of the most popular and well respected caterers in Charleston. Over the years I’d sampled their food at several weddings and parties. It was out of this world delicious. They prided themselves on southern charm and elegance with a Lowcountry flare.

I was a half hour early for the interview. After my monosyllabic performance on the phone, I didn’t want to come off as psychotically eager. So I sat in my car trying to think up possible questions I might be asked and calming my nerves. Several times I thought about calling Hart just to hear his warm encouraging voice. Lucky for him, we hadn’t exchanged numbers.

Fifteen minutes before the interview was set to start, I walked toward the building with my head held high, shoulders back, and an ounce of confidence I’d somehow held on to. The bell over the door jingled as I entered the lobby area. The walls were a bright white with black framed photos of special events they’d catered and awards they’d won. Other than a few chairs lining one wall and the high counter on the other wall, the place was sparsely decorated.

Out of nowhere a voice yelled. “Be right with you!”

My gaze darted around hoping to find where the voice was coming from. I noticed behind the counter, on the far left, was an open door. I stayed put until the voice told me otherwise. After a few minutes a pair of powder blue pants and a bright orange flowered shirt with matching Crocs came bursting through the door. The small lady who looked to be in her early sixties with frizzy salt-and-pepper hair barreled toward me.

“You Bryson?”

I headed over to her, extending my hand. “Yes.”

Bryson, enough already with the monosyllabic answers.

“I want to thank you again for giving me this opportunity.”

The lady’s dark gaze slid down behind her dark framed glasses. I followed her gaze to our still shaking hands.

Flashing her a weak smile, I let go. “Sorry.”

“I’m Nancy Baldwin.” She turned and headed toward the door she came out of. “Come. I’ll show you around.”

I followed her into a huge white room divided into different prep areas. At the far end was the kitchen with two stoves and a bank of ovens taking up the majority of one wall. Another wall housed a walk-in freezer and refrigerator. Long work tables, shelves, and rolling racks filled the space. Everything was top of the line, stainless steel, very organized, and spotless.

“No one’s here because we close on Mondays.” She walked toward a small desk tucked away in an empty corner and waved me over. “Come on.”

The few minutes I’d been around Nancy I could already tell she walked to the beat of her own drummer.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to the fold-out chair across from her desk.

I sat.

Grabbing what I assumed to be my resume, Nancy tilted her chair back and read over it.

Her eyes focused on the paper. “By the looks of it, you don’t have any experience.”

I swallowed hard. “I realize I don’t have much on my resume.”

“Not much? You got nothing.”

My throat felt thick as I blinked away the moisture in my eyes.

“You’re how old?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“And never held a job?”

Running my tongue over my dry lips, I said, “No ma’am.”

“This says you graduated two years ago. Whatcha been doing?”

“I got married.”

“So why a job now?”

“I’m getting a divorce.” I paused feeling the need to add more details. “We were together for ten years.”

“You have an MBA. Why do you want to work at a catering company?”

“A couple of years ago I discovered my passion for food and cooking. I love that I can be creative and also challenged by it. When I’m in the kitchen I feel peace and contentment. Like I was born to be there.”

My head was swimming so much, I had no idea what I’d just said. Looking over her glasses, Nancy gave me an approving nod.

She looked back at my resume, then at me, then back at the resume.

I could tell she was on the fence about me. I had one shot to push her over to my side.

“I know my resume, for lack of a better word, sucks. I’ve been cooking for just two years. And the only people who’ve eaten my dishes have been family and a few close friends. But I’m loyal, dependable, and even though you can’t tell by my resume, I’m a hard worker. Mrs. Baldwin . . .”

“Ms.”

“Ms. Baldwin, I’ve got the drive and eagerness to learn. All I need is that one person to give me a chance to prove it.”

She was silent for an extraordinarily long period of time. Placing my resume back on the desk, she leaned forward and looked me straight in the eye.

“It doesn’t pay a lot.”

“I don’t care. What I learn from you will be invaluable.”

“The position is for a prep cook.” I nodded. “Weekends are a must and during the busy season we work very long hours.” I kept nodding. “As you get familiar with things, you’ll be asked to assist at events as well.”

“It all sounds great.”

My body vibrated with excitement. I couldn’t believe that I had just gotten a job doing what I loved to do. What was even more incredible was the fact that I kept my nerves in check and didn’t ramble incoherently. Hart was going to flip when I told him I got the job. The realization that he was the first person I wanted to share the good news with flashed across my brain.

Nancy pushed away from her desk and stood. “You start next Monday. You’ll get the complete and detailed tour and we’ll get all the paperwork out of the way.”

I sprang from the chair and thrust my hand toward her. We shook.

“Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how excited and grateful I am that you’re willing to take a chance on me. I promise you won’t regret it.”

I followed Nancy’s gaze as it dropped down to our still shaking hands.

I let go.

I practically floated across the parking lot and into my car after leaving the interview. Nancy wasn’t just giving me a job. She was giving me the opportunity to prove to myself and others that I had something worthwhile to offer. And even though I wouldn’t be able to live the life I was used to on what she was paying me, for the first time in my twenty-six years I felt self-reliant and proud.

I was too excited to go home and wanted to celebrate. Calling my parents or Ryan was out. Too many questions would be asked about why I’d gotten a job in the first place. I had already kept the divorce a secret and tonight was not the time to drop that little morsel on their plates. I almost called Sophie but remembered she’d left for a few days on a business trip. Besides, I wanted to see the look on her face when I told her.

With my options dwindling, Hart popped back into my head. Who was I kidding, he’d been popping up since before I left Good Eats. It was no big deal that he was the first person I thought of to share my great news with. He’d inspired me to reach for my dreams and we had become friends. What worried me was how much I
wanted
to share my great news with him. I was so tied up in getting ready for the interview, it left little time and brain power for me to think about that moment in Hart’s office. Until now. Just the thought of his arms around me, the look in his eyes, and the touch of his fingers on my skin caused goosebumps to scatter over every visible surface of my body and a few that could not be seen by the naked eye.

The next thing I knew, my car was pulling into the rehab parking lot looking for Hart’s car. When it wasn’t in its usual spot, I glanced at my watch, realizing it was past office hours. I wondered if stopping by his house would be overkill. He did say he wanted a full report. And his house was on my way home so it wasn’t as if I’d be making a special trip. I’d stay long enough to tell him my news and leave. Just a friend stopping by to update another friend.

As I got closer to Hart’s house, I saw his car in the driveway. Another car was parked on the street between his place and Miss Polly’s, making it hard to tell which one of them had a visitor. The sun had almost set so the front porch and house were lit up. I pulled in behind Hart’s car. Hesitating for a few seconds, I reconsidered my friendly drop by. In all likelihood, I’d see him tomorrow at the rehab and could tell him then.

Screw it.

I got out of my car and headed up to the porch. There was all kinds of fluttering going on inside my chest, my stomach, and various other regions of my body. My finger hovered near the doorbell as I listened to my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I closed my eyes and pushed.

Clicking paws across hardwood accompanied by the excited bark of Butter came toward me. It sounded so clear and loud, I thought she’d run up on the porch. Looking to the left then right, I found no Butter. A loud thud from the other side of the door caused me to step back. I then noticed all the windows at the front of the house were open. In Charleston, there was a very short period of time during the year in which the weather was perfect and windows could be left up. The first weeks of fall were one of those times. Butter continued to bark and the door remained closed. My finger was poised to ring the bell one more time but I stopped myself, figuring it would only upset Butter more.

I headed down the steps and back to my car when a thought occurred to me. What if Hart wasn’t answering the door because he was hurt? What if he slipped and hit his head while transferring from his chair to the sofa or his bed or any number of other places. His car was here and there were lights on in the house. It was obvious he was home. Maybe Butter’s barks were actually cries for help.

Remembering the layout of the house pretty well from the other night, I headed around to the side where I thought the bedrooms were located. The pointy heel of my boots sank in the ground, causing me to stumble toward the first open window. The blinds were open enough for me to tell the room was dark and empty. As I backed away a muffled sound caught my attention.

Wobbling toward the next window, I could see the blinds were down but the lights were on. Another muffled sound, like a moan seeped out. I stepped closer. Laying my palms flat against the house, I craned my neck and tried to peer through the slats.

“My pussy is hot for you, baby.” A female’s groan assaulted my ears.

Holy shit! Legs get movin’.

But they wouldn’t budge.

“Stop talking.” Hart’s familiar rasp punched me in the stomach.

“You’ve never complained about my mouth before.”

There was a moment of silence followed by Hart growling. “Fuck it.”

“What’s wrong with you tonight?”

“Just leave.”

“But we haven’t . . .”

“Amber, get the fuck out. I don’t need you.”

“What about my . . .”

“Money’s on the dresser.”

Heels clicked accompanied by some unidentified rustling.

“Thanks, baby. I’ll be at the club if you change your mind. I’ll even give you a little discount since this visit was a bust.”

It took my brain a few seconds to defrost before realizing my car was still in the driveway. Staggering back from the house, I turned and was just about to run when a set of tiny white teeth stopped me.