The Fortunate Ones
Page 12
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
CHAPTER SIX
On days like this, I’m tempted to take extreme measures to secure an au pair position. The next time the agency calls me with an interview opportunity, I’m going to give myself a reverse makeover. Fake braces, dopey glasses, maybe a lisp—anything to pick up a new job so I can drop this one.
“Um, yeahhhh, this is wrong…I asked for a virgin strawberry daiquiri and my friend asked for a virgin piña colada.”
I take the drinks out of their barely-post-pubescent hands and swap them.
“There you go. Do you need anything else?”
The tween scowls. “But I already drank half of that one before I realized it wasn’t the right drink. I want another one.”
I take a calming breath and try to harness every drop of patience I have left inside of me.
“No problem. What’s your member ID number?”
She pulls down her sunglasses so I can see her crystal-blue eyes. “I already gave it to you.”
I want to drown her in that virgin strawberry daiquiri. Instead, I smile. “I’m sorry. I forgot it.”
Her friend sneers. “Be nice to the help, Mercedes. She might be like…special.”
Mercedes snickers and whispers loudly, “How sad. I mean, you’d kind of have to be to work here, right?”
Even though I want to, I don’t engage. I keep my smile right where it is and ask again. “What’s your member ID number?”
She rolls her eyes. “4387. The Johnsons.”
She says it like she’s proclaiming to be a Vanderbilt, but I know better. I didn’t recognize her before, but now I do. From rumors passed around the club, I know her dad just got caught cheating on her mom with his tennis partner—his male tennis partner—and now it makes sense; this mean girl act is a defense mechanism. Soon enough, she’ll find a good therapist and learn to get her anger out by taking up kickboxing. For now, I give her extra whipped cream on her strawberry daiquiri and vow to stay the hell away from her for the rest of the afternoon.
Another two hours pass, in which I schlepp food and drinks back and forth from the cabana bar to the kiddie pool. Fortunately, all the children over here are too young to be really mouthy. Plus, I’m the person bringing the candy and ice cream, so to them, I’m better than Elmo.
“Oooh, look who’s over by the gate,” one of the moms says as I’m clearing her table of empty margarita glasses.
“Oh god, he’s so hot,” her friend adds.
“Megan! You just got married six months ago!”
“Yeah, well, Mark isn’t exactly a wizard in the bedroom. Staring at James is probably the most sexually fulfilling thing I’ll do all week.”
My neck nearly breaks at the mention of his name. I turn around, and sure enough, he’s over by the gate, leaning on the ledge and scanning the pool area. I conclude that he’s looking for someone a second before his brown eyes lock with mine. My stomach dips in a sensation I can only describe as euphoric and terrifying all at once, and that’s before he smiles and nods for me to come over.
“Who is he looking at?” one of the moms asks.
“I think the hot cabana girl.”
For their information, I am a cabana woman, thank you very much.
“Maybe he wants a margarita?” the first one asks.
“Um, if that’s how he looks at you when he wants you to get him a margarita then sign me up for cabana duties.”
My hand shakes as I reach for the last cup on their table.
“Do you know him?” Megan asks me.
I offer a hesitant smile and a quick shake of my head. It’s better if they assume he just wants a drink; I’d rather not be the topic of the gossip continually spreading through Twin Oaks.
By the time I drop off my tray in the cabana kitchen and check my reflection in the back of a spoon (good, not great), James is standing just inside the pool gate, hands tucked in his pants pockets. It’s early summer in Texas, which means the temperature is already creeping into the high 80s. I’d be sweating bullets if I were wearing a tailored suit out here, but James looks like he’s hardly aware of the sun beating down overhead. Who knows? Maybe he doesn’t have pores like the rest of us. Still, in an effort to save us both, I direct us over to the shaded porch near the bar then turn to face him.
“Going for a dip?” I tease.
I swear his smile turns devilish.
He nods toward the club entrance. “I just came from a lunch meeting. I need to get back to the office soon, but I wanted to talk to you.”
I swallow down my eagerness. “Oh yeah?”
“You know,” he says, brushing his hand along his smooth jaw, “I used to see you around the club all the time, but now that I have a reason to talk to you, you’ve been impossible to find.”
The concept of him looking for me is hilarious given the biking-home-in-the-rain scenario I endured a few days ago.
“Well, I assure you, I’ve been here,” I say, waving to the pool behind me. “Personally inebriating the rich, famous, and bratty.”
That makes him smile just as the tweens screech in unison about a new Snapchat filter.
“Right. Of course,” he says, glancing down to take in my Twin Oaks uniform in all its glory. I flush under his blatant perusal.
“So what did you need to talk to me about so desperately?” I ask, catching my hands in front of my waist and wringing them out.
He rocks back on his heels and glances away. His eyes narrow, and I almost think he’s mulling over what he’s about to say before he finally admits, “I could really use your help.”
That’s how he says it, just vague enough that I have no way of knowing what he’s referring to.
“With what?”
He graciously ignores the high-pitched inflection of my words as he replies, “I’m attending a party soon, and I’d like you to accompany me.” A DATE? THIS IS AN INVITATION TO GO OUT ON A DATE. “My company is in need of a new CFO and the man I’d like for the job will be in attendance, as will his French girlfriend.”
I shake my head, confused. Why is he giving me all these extraneous details? It’s a date—tell me what time you’re picking me up and let’s get this show on the road!
He smiles gently before he continues, “You mentioned the other day that you’re fluent in French…”
Of course. Duh. He doesn’t want me for romance, he wants me for my Romance languages.
“So you want me to keep his date company for you?”
A normal, decent human would at least act embarrassed by the bluntness of my question. Not James.
He gazes directly at me as he replies, “Exactly.”
I spend a moment trying to decide how his request makes me feel. It’s not a date, that much is clear, but that doesn’t mean I should turn him down. For the last two and a half weeks, I’ve been replaying our conversation in the bar so often that I could recite it word for word on a Broadway stage in sync with music. But, if I’m going to agree to this, I want to know exactly where I stand.
“So I’d be some sort of secret linguistic weapon?”
He smiles and then wipes it away, like he’s entirely too amused by the question. God, he’s good-looking up close, all hard lines and contours with a pair of lips he can maneuver into one hell of a tempting smile.
“I don’t know how I feel about that,” I continue on a shaky voice. “It feels a bit like being used.”
“Would you rather I lied?” he asks with an arched brow.
Yes.
“No.”
“Good, because I think honesty is important. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned.”
I nod and do my best to slip into the persona he wants from me. “What’s in it for me? Will there be good food?”
He chuckles. “Plenty, and of course, Jack and Coke.”
He’s alluding to my drink from the other night. I’m surprised he remembers; maybe he’s replayed our encounter a time or two as well. The thought emboldens me.
I shrug. Cool. Effortless. “Fine, I’ll go.”
Still, I need to know my role. Online, I wasn’t able to find anything about a girlfriend or wife, but it’s not like his entire life is plastered on Google. He’s not a celebrity, at least not outside of Austin.
On days like this, I’m tempted to take extreme measures to secure an au pair position. The next time the agency calls me with an interview opportunity, I’m going to give myself a reverse makeover. Fake braces, dopey glasses, maybe a lisp—anything to pick up a new job so I can drop this one.
“Um, yeahhhh, this is wrong…I asked for a virgin strawberry daiquiri and my friend asked for a virgin piña colada.”
I take the drinks out of their barely-post-pubescent hands and swap them.
“There you go. Do you need anything else?”
The tween scowls. “But I already drank half of that one before I realized it wasn’t the right drink. I want another one.”
I take a calming breath and try to harness every drop of patience I have left inside of me.
“No problem. What’s your member ID number?”
She pulls down her sunglasses so I can see her crystal-blue eyes. “I already gave it to you.”
I want to drown her in that virgin strawberry daiquiri. Instead, I smile. “I’m sorry. I forgot it.”
Her friend sneers. “Be nice to the help, Mercedes. She might be like…special.”
Mercedes snickers and whispers loudly, “How sad. I mean, you’d kind of have to be to work here, right?”
Even though I want to, I don’t engage. I keep my smile right where it is and ask again. “What’s your member ID number?”
She rolls her eyes. “4387. The Johnsons.”
She says it like she’s proclaiming to be a Vanderbilt, but I know better. I didn’t recognize her before, but now I do. From rumors passed around the club, I know her dad just got caught cheating on her mom with his tennis partner—his male tennis partner—and now it makes sense; this mean girl act is a defense mechanism. Soon enough, she’ll find a good therapist and learn to get her anger out by taking up kickboxing. For now, I give her extra whipped cream on her strawberry daiquiri and vow to stay the hell away from her for the rest of the afternoon.
Another two hours pass, in which I schlepp food and drinks back and forth from the cabana bar to the kiddie pool. Fortunately, all the children over here are too young to be really mouthy. Plus, I’m the person bringing the candy and ice cream, so to them, I’m better than Elmo.
“Oooh, look who’s over by the gate,” one of the moms says as I’m clearing her table of empty margarita glasses.
“Oh god, he’s so hot,” her friend adds.
“Megan! You just got married six months ago!”
“Yeah, well, Mark isn’t exactly a wizard in the bedroom. Staring at James is probably the most sexually fulfilling thing I’ll do all week.”
My neck nearly breaks at the mention of his name. I turn around, and sure enough, he’s over by the gate, leaning on the ledge and scanning the pool area. I conclude that he’s looking for someone a second before his brown eyes lock with mine. My stomach dips in a sensation I can only describe as euphoric and terrifying all at once, and that’s before he smiles and nods for me to come over.
“Who is he looking at?” one of the moms asks.
“I think the hot cabana girl.”
For their information, I am a cabana woman, thank you very much.
“Maybe he wants a margarita?” the first one asks.
“Um, if that’s how he looks at you when he wants you to get him a margarita then sign me up for cabana duties.”
My hand shakes as I reach for the last cup on their table.
“Do you know him?” Megan asks me.
I offer a hesitant smile and a quick shake of my head. It’s better if they assume he just wants a drink; I’d rather not be the topic of the gossip continually spreading through Twin Oaks.
By the time I drop off my tray in the cabana kitchen and check my reflection in the back of a spoon (good, not great), James is standing just inside the pool gate, hands tucked in his pants pockets. It’s early summer in Texas, which means the temperature is already creeping into the high 80s. I’d be sweating bullets if I were wearing a tailored suit out here, but James looks like he’s hardly aware of the sun beating down overhead. Who knows? Maybe he doesn’t have pores like the rest of us. Still, in an effort to save us both, I direct us over to the shaded porch near the bar then turn to face him.
“Going for a dip?” I tease.
I swear his smile turns devilish.
He nods toward the club entrance. “I just came from a lunch meeting. I need to get back to the office soon, but I wanted to talk to you.”
I swallow down my eagerness. “Oh yeah?”
“You know,” he says, brushing his hand along his smooth jaw, “I used to see you around the club all the time, but now that I have a reason to talk to you, you’ve been impossible to find.”
The concept of him looking for me is hilarious given the biking-home-in-the-rain scenario I endured a few days ago.
“Well, I assure you, I’ve been here,” I say, waving to the pool behind me. “Personally inebriating the rich, famous, and bratty.”
That makes him smile just as the tweens screech in unison about a new Snapchat filter.
“Right. Of course,” he says, glancing down to take in my Twin Oaks uniform in all its glory. I flush under his blatant perusal.
“So what did you need to talk to me about so desperately?” I ask, catching my hands in front of my waist and wringing them out.
He rocks back on his heels and glances away. His eyes narrow, and I almost think he’s mulling over what he’s about to say before he finally admits, “I could really use your help.”
That’s how he says it, just vague enough that I have no way of knowing what he’s referring to.
“With what?”
He graciously ignores the high-pitched inflection of my words as he replies, “I’m attending a party soon, and I’d like you to accompany me.” A DATE? THIS IS AN INVITATION TO GO OUT ON A DATE. “My company is in need of a new CFO and the man I’d like for the job will be in attendance, as will his French girlfriend.”
I shake my head, confused. Why is he giving me all these extraneous details? It’s a date—tell me what time you’re picking me up and let’s get this show on the road!
He smiles gently before he continues, “You mentioned the other day that you’re fluent in French…”
Of course. Duh. He doesn’t want me for romance, he wants me for my Romance languages.
“So you want me to keep his date company for you?”
A normal, decent human would at least act embarrassed by the bluntness of my question. Not James.
He gazes directly at me as he replies, “Exactly.”
I spend a moment trying to decide how his request makes me feel. It’s not a date, that much is clear, but that doesn’t mean I should turn him down. For the last two and a half weeks, I’ve been replaying our conversation in the bar so often that I could recite it word for word on a Broadway stage in sync with music. But, if I’m going to agree to this, I want to know exactly where I stand.
“So I’d be some sort of secret linguistic weapon?”
He smiles and then wipes it away, like he’s entirely too amused by the question. God, he’s good-looking up close, all hard lines and contours with a pair of lips he can maneuver into one hell of a tempting smile.
“I don’t know how I feel about that,” I continue on a shaky voice. “It feels a bit like being used.”
“Would you rather I lied?” he asks with an arched brow.
Yes.
“No.”
“Good, because I think honesty is important. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned.”
I nod and do my best to slip into the persona he wants from me. “What’s in it for me? Will there be good food?”
He chuckles. “Plenty, and of course, Jack and Coke.”
He’s alluding to my drink from the other night. I’m surprised he remembers; maybe he’s replayed our encounter a time or two as well. The thought emboldens me.
I shrug. Cool. Effortless. “Fine, I’ll go.”
Still, I need to know my role. Online, I wasn’t able to find anything about a girlfriend or wife, but it’s not like his entire life is plastered on Google. He’s not a celebrity, at least not outside of Austin.
