Chapter 20 Unwanted Encounters
POV Scarlett:
Three weeks later
Days have passed, and I feel like I’m in heaven. My father hasn’t had a single relapse since deciding to quit drinking and start over. Our relationship is beginning to feel like it used to, and I’ve been doing my best not to disappoint him again. I changed my phone number to make sure Asher or any of his brothers would never call me, and even the other day, when a letter arrived addressed to me, I tore it up without reading it. I didn’t want to risk my father noticing my discomfort and thinking I’d gone back to seeing the Hawthornes.
When I read the sender’s name, my heart raced, though I couldn’t explain why. I’m still curious about what that letter said. I didn’t even risk keeping the torn pieces to piece them back together later. What the hell did Mr. Asshole want with me? I guess I’ll never know—but maybe it’s better that way. I don’t even want to imagine what my father would think if he found out I’d received a letter from a man he doesn’t know. I shake my head, trying to push away the fear that creeps in when I think of what might’ve happened if my father had been the one to get the letter instead of me.
Sitting outside the diner where I work, I wait for my break to end so I can go back to the fries—after all, they don’t fry themselves. Since I messed up too many orders, I’ve been assigned only to fry potatoes, and honestly, that’s fine by me. The problem is, I’ve developed a serious nausea toward fries, which is making things difficult. Yesterday, I threw up twice just from the smell. If this keeps up, my boss might fire me—and I can’t afford to lose this job. Mrs. Arlete has been so good to me; I don’t want to let her down. She was the only person who gave me a chance, and I can’t waste it.
I take a deep breath, trying to control my nausea, and head back inside the diner. The moment I walk through the door, I bump into a customer who must’ve been on his way out. I lift my head to apologize—and freeze.
Mr. Asshole himself is standing right in front of me.
What the hell is Mr. Perfect doing here?
He looks me over from head to toe, one eyebrow lifting. At his side is a tall blonde woman who stares at me with disgust. I bite my tongue to keep from asking her if she’s lost something.
“Excuse me,” I say, avoiding both of their gazes and walking quickly back toward my station.
“Wait—I think I know you,” he says, stopping me with a hand on my arm, while his other hand holds a tray with a burger and fries. The sight of it alone makes my stomach churn.
“I believe you must be mistaken, sir,” I lie, trying to free myself from his grip. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.” I try again to pull away; his hold loosens, but not enough to let me go.
He looks me up and down once more, and I swallow hard when I see the flicker of recognition in his eyes.
What are the odds?
What are the fucking odds that I’d think about him—and summon him like some kind of haunting?
All the odds. That’s the right answer. Because I’m just that damn unlucky.
“Miss Monroe?” he asks, a teasing smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Who would’ve thought?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes and decide to play along.
“Oh, how could I not recognize you?” I say, tapping my forehead with exaggerated forgetfulness. “Mr. Blackwell, of course. How are you?” I fake a pleasant tone.
“I’m fine,” he says, glancing around the diner, though it doesn’t take long for his eyes to find me again. “You work here?” he asks, sounding indifferent.
Can’t you see that, genius?
“Yes,” I answer with a forced smile. “Which is why I really need to get back to work.” I don’t wait for his response—I just turn my back on him and the blonde and return to my station.
...
By the end of the night, I’m just waiting for the last few customers to finish eating so I can run home and shower. The smell of fries is embedded even in my hair. I’ve been trying to keep my nausea under control so Mrs. Arlete doesn’t notice, and the only trick that’s been working is breathing through my mouth. It’s what’s kept me from bolting to the bathroom like yesterday. What’s happening to me? Maybe it’s just a stomach bug?
The bell over the door jingles, pulling me out of my thoughts. Just what I needed—more customers, when all I want is to leave. Since Lisa left early, I offered to cover her shift at the counter, and now I bitterly regret that act of kindness when I see who’s walking toward me.
Damian Blackwell.
He strides in my direction, his face wearing a curious expression as he studies me. What the hell is he thinking? I swallow hard when he stops right in front of me. I glance around for help—the few customers are too busy eating, my coworkers are far away, and Mrs. Arlete is in her office as always at the end of the night.
Shit.
He leans on the counter, bringing himself closer to me.
“I had to come back to ask you,” he says, leaning in even more.
“What did you do with the check?” he whispers.
I frown, confused.
“What?”
Besides being an asshole, is he insane? What the hell is he talking about?
“Why are you working here?” he asks, eyeing my uniform with a grimace.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and frankly, I don’t owe you any explanation about where I work or why.”
“I just don’t understand…” he mutters, shaking his head. “You didn’t come after me to curse me out, or try to hit me. You didn’t even deposit the check. Just tell me—why?”
I exhale sharply, irritated.
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. Besides being an asshole, are you also delusional?” I said exactly what I was thinking.
Mr. Perfect Asshole smiled sideways, and I hated myself for noticing the dimple in his cheek—and even more for realizing how goddamn handsome he looked when he smiled. I shoved the thought aside, staying on guard, waiting for whatever nonsense he’d say next.
“Now that’s better.” His smirk widened. “When I saw you acting all polite, I thought you were having a stroke.” He chuckled, and I grimaced.
“Go to hell,” I muttered, careful not to let the customers hear me.
“There she is—I missed you, Petulant,” he teased. I rolled my eyes. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you look when you’re angry?”
My eyes widened.
Was he… flirting with me?