In Shady Grove: About That Night Part 4

"Let me get you a drink," the cowboy said, glancing around as if searching for a waitress-when one was right in front of him. "We can talk. Get to know each other better."

"Yes, that sounds like a great idea. And I'm sure none of my coworkers, or my supervisor, will care if I sit down in the middle of my s.h.i.+ft and toss back a few with a customer."

He frowned. Scanned her from head to toe, as if suddenly remembering she should be getting him a drink. Not the other way around. "What time do you get done?"

"You're persistent. I'll give you that." It was flattering. Knowing he was willing to work a bit to get her time and attention.

That she was seriously considering telling him she'd be done by midnight annoyed her to no end. She didn't date customers, never hooked up with men she waited on. It set a bad precedence. Gave them the crazy idea that she'd serve them in bed, too.

An unsteady blonde in leather tottered over to them. Pressed against his side. "Darling," she said, tugging at his elbow, "don't flirt with the help. It's unseemly."

Ivy bit back a wince. d.a.m.ned her cheeks for heating.

The help.

Well, if that didn't put things into perspective, nothing would.

"Yes, darling," Ivy said, mimicking the older woman's slightly slurred, superior tone, "listen to your date. One must always remember one's station in life."

Ivy never forgot hers.

The blonde's smile was none-too-sober and as fake as her b.o.o.bs. "Aren't you sweet?"

Ivy matched her toothy grin with one of her own. "Not particularly."

"She's not my date," the cowboy said, keeping a hand on the woman's upper arm. "She's my mother."

His tone was pure resignation with a bit of embarra.s.sment thrown in for good measure. Ivy could relate. Her mother had never been able to grasp the concept of acting-or dressing-her age, either.

"I'll have a dirty martini," his mother told Ivy as she clung to her son's arm-though Ivy guessed that had less to do with maternal love and more to do with her being three sheets to the wind. If she let go, she'd probably fall on her surgically modified, freakishly smooth face. Though that huge helmet of teased and sprayed hair might protect her from brain damage. "Three olives."

"And d.a.m.n the calories," Ivy said under her breath, taking in the woman's ultrathin frame. Looked as if those olives were tonight's dinner.

She turned to the cowboy, was taken aback by his easy grin. Guess he'd heard her. She wanted to return his smile, but the help were to be seen, not heard. Ordered about, not engaged in small talk or flirtations. At least, not publicly.

She shook her head. She really needed to cut back on those reruns of Downton Abbey.

"And you, sir?"

His eyes narrowed on the sir, which, admittedly, she'd emphasized. No harm reminding them both why they were there. Who they were.

But she hated seeing that smile fade.

"Bourbon," he said. "Neat."

She inclined her head. "Right away."

Ivy brushed past him. Could feel him watching her as she crossed the room toward the bar, but she refused to look back. Though she possibly added a bit more sway to her hips.

"Table 15 needs drinks," she told her coworker Vanessa. "Could you handle that for me? Dirty martini for the Dancing Queen. Three olives." They'd all seen the blonde shaking her a.s.s in that leather dress. "Bourbon, neat, for the cowboy."

Setting c.o.c.ktail napkins on her tray while Kent, the bartender, filled her order, Vanessa shook her head, her short, artificially red hair swinging. "Don't try to p.a.w.n your b.u.t.t-grabber off on me. I've gone the entire evening without any pats, rubs or pinches. I'd like to keep it that way. Preserve the record."

Ah, the life of a c.o.c.ktail waitress. People thought the goods being displayed were theirs to touch. Even a subdued, family-type gathering such as an engagement party could get out of hand once the alcohol started flowing.

"He's not a b.u.t.t-grabber," Ivy said. A man who looked like that, with that deep, subtle tw.a.n.g, didn't have to resort to creepy tactics to get a woman's attention.

"I was talking about the woman," Vanessa said. "She looks capable and more than ready to eat anyone alive. And there must be a reason you don't want to deliver them yourself."

Many, many reasons. The number one being self-preservation.

"Trust me," Ivy said. "Your b.u.t.t is safe. And the reason I don't want to deliver them myself is because it's my break time."

"Fine. I'll switch you table 15 for table 8."

"Done." Ivy skirted the bar and snagged a flute of champagne from a tray before pus.h.i.+ng through the door to a small hallway. She walked past the kitchen on her right, then, farther down, a small break room on the left and kept going until she reached the metal exterior door.

She pushed it open and stepped out into the night. The cold stung her cheeks, stole her breath. Still, she kept going, her high heels echoing on the pavement as she crossed the dimly lit parking lot to her ancient car. She climbed behind the wheel, shut the door and stared blindly through the winds.h.i.+eld.

What was that? What the h.e.l.l was that?

The cowboy had fl.u.s.tered her. Unnerved her. Worse than that, he'd known it.

She'd given him power. Control. Had pretty much handed them over to him on a platter along with her good sense and a portion of her pride.

She took a gulp of champagne. Bubbles exploded inside her mouth, the taste light and expensive, but it did nothing to wash away the bitterness rising in her throat.

Men never fl.u.s.tered her. Why should they? They were simple souls with simple needs. Basic needs. When they saw her, they saw opportunity. What she could do for them. What she had to give them. How she could make them feel.

Why shouldn't she turn that around-twist their desire for her, their attraction to her-to her advantage? A warm smile, a light, friendly touch to an arm, some harmless flirting could all increase her night's tips.

And she was always-always-the one ruling the game.

Until one tall, green-eyed cowboy had to come along and mess things up.

She finished the champagne. Wished she'd helped herself to two gla.s.ses.

Or at least had had the foresight to grab her coat.

The cowboy's fault, as well. He'd scrambled her thoughts. Her attraction to him had thrown her for a loop, but that was over now. No man got the better of Ivy Rutherford.

The pa.s.senger door was yanked opened and she squeaked in surprise, her breath hanging in the air a few inches before her face like a tiny cloud.

"What are you doing out here?" Ivy asked seventeen-year-old Gracie Weaver as the teenager flopped onto the seat and shut the door. "And where's your coat?"

Ivy shook her head. Great. She sounded like a mom. Not Ivy's mother, of course. One of those sitcom moms who always had time for their kids, cared about whether they were warm enough.

One of those moms who loved their daughters instead of blaming them for ruining their lives.

"Brian said he saw you leave," Gracie said, her teeth already chattering. "I figured you'd be here."

"That still doesn't explain why you're here."

"One of the guests wants to speak with you. Said it was important."

Ivy's fingers tightened on the gla.s.s so hard, she was afraid it'd shatter into a million pieces. Slowly, carefully she set it on the console next to her sungla.s.ses and an empty to-go coffee cup.

"Oh?" Her voice sounded strangled, so she cleared her throat. "Which guest?" she asked, though she already knew.

Oh, yeah, she knew.

"The guy in the cowboy hat."

"Tall? With blond hair and green eyes?"

"Yes and yes. Plus, he's the only guy in the building-probably in the whole town-wearing a cowboy hat. Not sure how else to narrow it down for you." Gracie frowned and rubbed her hands together, then blew on them. "Do you think it's acceptable to wear a cowboy hat indoors? Because my grandma would have a fit if Dad wore his baseball cap inside the house."

"Let's focus on the topic at hand, shall we?" If Ivy didn't keep Gracie on track, the kid could veer so far off topic, they'd never find their way back. "I'm sure whatever the cowboy wishes to discuss, he can do so with Wendy." It would serve the cowboy right if Ivy sent her uptight supervisor over to see what he wanted. "Besides, I already switched tables with Vanessa. She's more than capable of getting his drinks."

"But he wants to talk to you," Gracie said.

"He seems like a guy well used to getting his way." She remembered the confidence in his eyes, bordering on arrogance. The way he held himself, as if he owned the room and everything-and everyone-in it. "This will be a great life lesson for him."

"What if he gets upset?"

"He'll get over it. A little disappointment never killed anyone."

"I wouldn't disappoint him." The teen was all innocent earnestness and dreamy sighs. "He's completely hot. And nice. We had a very interesting conversation earlier, and he didn't come across as creepy at all."

Ivy smiled. Leave it to Gracie to put her in a better mood, no matter what the situation. "Well, noncreep or not, I have no intention of doing his bidding."

"I'm just saying he seems decent. And," Gracie continued, pulling something from her pocket, "he gave me this for finding you."

Ivy raised her eyebrows at the one hundred dollar bill currently being waved in her face. "Really? He bribed a minor to do his dirty work?"

Gracie wrinkled her nose. "I think it was more of a tip. Which means he's generous."

"What it means is that he's willing to pay any price to get his way. That he doesn't mind throwing his money around."

"You could give him a chance. Maybe he just wants to get to know you."

"Yes, I'm sure that's it," Ivy said blandly. "After speaking with me for less than five minutes, he's intrigued by my mind. Attracted to my sparkling personality."

Oh, to be so young and innocent in the ways of the world.

Ivy almost envied the teen.

"It's possible," Gracie insisted. "Who knows? Maybe he's your soul mate. And if you don't go back there, you could miss your chance with him."

"Honey, I believe in soul mates as much as I do Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny." She softened her tone, squeezed Gracie's arm. "But, to go along with your soul-mates-and-fate theory, we'll just say if it's meant to be, then it'll be. I could ignore him for the rest of the night, and it wouldn't change anything. We'd still end up together."

As long as they ended up together on her terms. Not his.

"I just find it sad," Gracie said with all the melodrama of a soap star, "incredibly, momentously sad, that you're so...so..."

"So...pragmatic?" Ivy asked when the teenager struggled to find the right adjective. Which was unusual as Gracie typically had no trouble with words and loved using as many as possible. "Practical? Reasonable? Realistic?"

Gracie's sigh was a work of art. Long-suffering and heartfelt. Ah, to be seventeen and a master of sarcasm. And a slave to emotions. "Cynical."

"Well, that cuts deep, doesn't it?" Giving her coworker a thoughtful frown, Ivy kept her tone somber. "But I've now seen the error of my sensible ways, thanks to your amazing grasp of syntax and the perfect amount of pathos in your tone." She lifted the champagne flute in a mock toast. "Pink lacy hearts, huge diamonds and chocolates for everyone."

Tucking one leg under the other, Gracie turned and studied Ivy with her too-intense gaze. "Molly says sarcasm is a defense mechanism used when someone hits too close to the truth."

"Molly has six sons under the age of eight, one of them a newborn. It's obvious your stepmother is a few kale leaves short of a pound, so we're not going to take anything she says to heart."

Another sigh from Gracie, this one just a few notches below resignation. At least all those heavy exhalations were warming up the car a bit. "Don't worry. Someday, you'll get over it."

"If the it you're referring to is my common sense, then sorry, but you're going to be majorly disappointed. If a woman doesn't have her wits about her, she has nothing." Ivy dug out a pen and crumpled napkin from the console. Handed them to Gracie. "Write that bit of wisdom down so you remember it."

Gracie didn't even glance at the offerings in Ivy's hands. "It being your broken heart. Someday, when you're ready, it will mend, and you will be able to live your life free of all that anger and pain you carry around." She tipped her head, her ponytail bouncing, and studied Ivy some more. "I'm surprised you don't know this. You should have better self-awareness."

Ivy laughed. She got such a kick out of this kid. "Honey, there's not a woman alive who is more self-aware than I am."

Gracie meant well, but she was way off base. Ivy had gone twenty-six years without suffering from a broken heart, and she planned on keeping that streak alive for...oh...forever sounded good.

She already knew the damage heartbreak could cause. It wore you down and stripped you of your pride, leaving you angry, resentful and so hurt, you never got over it.

She may not have experienced it firsthand, but she'd heard about it plenty, had witnessed its effects up close, thank you very much. Her mother had spent her entire life jumping from relations.h.i.+p to relations.h.i.+p, happily swallowing the lies men fed her, believing their promises only to be let down again and again.

So, yeah, Ivy knew all about the frailty of emotions. How they tricked you into believing foolish myths about happy endings and forever after. No other person could complete you or make you happy.

Give away your truth and you gave away the upper hand. Share your secrets, your hopes and dreams and desires, and you lost all power. The idea of true love looked good on paper, but in reality, it was complicated, often messy and, in many cases, downright ugly.

Loving someone made you vulnerable. Weak.

And any weakness led to pain.

GRACIE WATCHED IVY pick up the empty champagne gla.s.s, lift it to her mouth and tip it back. When nothing came out, Ivy held the gla.s.s out and glared at it, as if she'd expected bubbly wine to magically appear.

"Are you okay?" Gracie asked. She tucked her hands under her legs to warm them. Her nose was starting to run. She sniffed. "You're acting..." Weird. Fl.u.s.tered. "...not like yourself."

Ivy was not only possibly the most beautiful woman Gracie had ever seen in real life, she was also the coolest. Always in complete control of her emotions. Her actions.

Gracie knew her well enough to know it was a defense mechanism of some sort, a facade she kept up in order to keep people at bay. Still, she couldn't help but admire Ivy for it.

"I'm fine. Come on. Let's get back inside before we freeze to death."