“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, trying to keep this formal and impersonal. The night after we slept together, which has been weeks ago now, he called me.
And then he called me the next day.
And the next day.
His calls tapered off over the course of a couple of weeks until they stopped completely and I found relief in the fact that he seemed to be getting the hint all over again.
“Been trying to get a hold of you for weeks,” he says, voice low as he smiles through his bruised ego.
Wincing, I release a slow breath. “I’m so sorry.”
Looking at him with his pitiful expression and his puppy dog eyes and falling smile, I feel like a giant piece of shit. I should’ve been an adult and told him right away that I wasn’t feeling … this … instead I ignored him because I didn’t want to hurt him—which only hurt him anyway. Faulty logic. Completely my fault.
“I shouldn’t have brushed you off,” I say, placing my hand over my heart. And I mean it. I feel awful. I knew he liked me, I slept with him which probably got his hopes up, and I ghosted him. “But I think we should just be friends.”
He removes his disheartened gaze from mine, staring across the booth at the empty spot. His fingers tap on the table and he shifts in his seat.
“Myles, I’m so sorry,” I say again. This isn’t one of my finer moments, but I’m willing to accept full responsibility that I screwed this up and hurt him. At the time, the drinks were flowing and we were laughing and all I kept thinking about was how badly I needed a quick release and how sex is just sex … but in my drunken stupor, I didn’t stop to think that Myles and I weren’t on the same page with that.
He folds his menu and shoves it across his table, exhaling hard. “Right. Heard you the first time.”
“Maybe we can talk about this another time?” I ask, glancing at the man at the next table who’s been trying to flag me down for the last minute. “When I’m not working?”
Myles’ mouth presses flat.
“Sounds pretty pointless.” Sliding out of his seat, he squares his body with mine, his expensive cologne invading my personal space. “Guess I’ll see you around.”
He leaves.
I feel like shit.
Brushing my proverbial shoulders off, I check on the table behind him, refilling a man’s coffee before returning to the galley.
“What was up with that?” Rachael asks, pouring an orange juice. “Why’d he leave?”
Drawing in a deep breath, I check the clock. “He’s had a thing for me for a while. We slept together a few weeks ago and then I ghosted.”
Her red lips form a crooked smirk. “You’re so bad.”
“I’m not bad. I’m cruel.”
“Nah. You’re not cruel, you’re just being too hard on yourself. Men do that crap all the time. We do it once and we beat ourselves up about it for days,” she says. “Let it go, sweets. He’ll move on. They always do. And let’s not dismiss the fact that you ignored him and he had the nerve to show up at your work to get your attention. Something’s not right about him so don’t go kicking yourself, all right? You didn’t handle the situation perfectly, but neither did he. See? You’re even.”
Sighing, I say, “I love you, Rach.”
“Love you too, Ritz.” Rach gives me a side hug before grabbing the OJ and heading out to table seven.
The rest of the morning is a blur, which turns out to be a good thing. We’re hit with our usual eight o’clock rush followed by a sightseeing tour bus full of retirees who traveled all the way from Reno to get their hands on our famous cinnamon pancakes.
By mid-afternoon, I’m back home with aching feet and a yawn that won’t stop. I’m halfway to becoming an actual vegetable on the sofa when Melrose texts me and asks me to walk Murphy.
Peeling my faux zebra-skin blanket off my legs, I climb up and call for the world’s most pampered pug before grabbing his leash by the door. The click-clack of his paws on the tile and the jingle of his collar follows and a second later he’s attempting to jump into my arms. I hook him up and head out, passing by the mailbox once I’m outside the driveway gate.
Stopping, I reach my hand inside and retrieve a small stack of junk, bills, and Melrose’s newest issue of Vogue.
Murphy relieves himself on a nearby palm tree.
Life goes on.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Isaiah
I almost died today. Granted, that risk is always a given when I’m out here in the land of air strikes, land minds, and suicide bombers, but this was different. Fourteen of my men were injured today. On my watch, no less.