Page 3 of Paths
My experience with seniors was nil, zippo, zilch. Both sets of my grandparents are snooty. They never baked cookies with us, took us to the zoo, or even had us for sleepovers. Nope, they were more of the children should be seen and not heard mentality. But I’ve bullshitted my way at the Ranch, just like I have here at Whitetail.
I had to do my research on activities for seniors. I’m actually surprised I even got the job, but I think I sealed the deal when I BS’d my way through the questions about activity and exercise during the interview. Health is what I know, so I went with it. I got the position on the spot.
Landing this job at Whitetail was a different story. When I met with Addy to rent her bungalow, I thought she handed me a job out of sheer pity. That was not a fun day for me. Pity is something I’ve been taught to loathe. One can pity others all the livelong day, but to be pitied is a sign of weakness.
When Addy offered me a job, she had no idea how badly I needed out of my hellhole of a sleazy motel room. Not only was it the dirtiest place I’d ever experienced, but it was seriously scary and completely unsafe. I slid the dresser in front of the door every night, just in case. But what I’ve learned over the last month and a half is Addy didn’t pity me that day, she offered me pure kindness.
Kindness isn’t something I’m accustomed to.
I smile at the guests as they seem happy with their food and quickly go to clear two tables who have finished eating. Another lesson learned from my mother—no one wants to look at a dirty dish at their place setting.
After dropping them in the kitchen, I go to the bar to wash glasses and find Evan doing inventory.
“Maya, Maya, Maya. When are you going to come to poker night? You’re starting to give us a complex, you know.” When I look up, Evan is leaning back against the bar with his arms crossed and has a smirk on his face.
Evan towers over me, but he’s young. At twenty-four, he’s four years younger than me. He’s smart, self-assured, and good at his job as the tasting room manager. He’s my boss. I’d never say this to his face because I know guys hate it, but he’s nothing but pure cute. He oozes cuteness. He’s like my little brother who I hug just to annoy him, because I can’t help it. When Evan smiles, he’s off the scales adorable, and I want to ruffle his messy hair.
I shake my head and look back to my task, holding a glass up to the light to make sure there aren’t any water spots. “I told you, I don’t know how to play poker. I’d just slow the game down, and everyone would be frustrated but wouldn’t say anything because they’re too nice. I’d be a bother and I hate being a bother.”
“Mary didn’t know how to play and we taught her. Not knowing how to play isn’t an excuse. Maggie has an excuse, she…” He pauses and tips his head with a grimace. “Well, she’s Maggie. Claire would have to bring her kids, they’d tear down the Ordinary for sure. You have no excuse. It’s on a Monday, so you’re not working here, and you’re not leading Bingo because all the old codgers are asleep by the time we start. You’re coming next week.”
“We’ll see.” I smile as I lie. Everyone here is so nice, but I need to keep a healthy distance. Friends tend to want to know things about you. I need to be friendly, but I do not need friends. So far, I’ve managed to toe this line carefully, although the longer I work at both the Ranch and here, it’s proving difficult.
Damn, people are nice out here in the middle of nowhere. Who knew?
“I’m not taking no for an answer again. After Mary cut your hair, she all but gave me the girlfriend warning that if I didn’t get you to poker, I’d pay the price. If for no other reason, you need to do me this favor so I can score points with my new girlfriend.”
After going months without a trim, I mentioned in passing to Addy that I needed a haircut. She made me an appointment with her girl, Mary. Little did I know they were best friends or that Mary and Evan just started dating. I swear, this group is woven so tight, I’ve never seen anything like it. Bev is so sweet it actually hurts to turn her down when she invites me to dinner, poker, or for a glass of wine at sunset when she knows I’m getting off work.
But no, I need distance. I need it like my life depends on it, because it does. It’s already hard enough to keep my story straight. Even Addy, who in the beginning gave me my space, has started working her way into my heart by talking about how she lost her mom to cancer, how she came to live here in the middle of nowhere, and how her employees became her new family. There are days where I just can’t take it, not because she’s trying to find things out about me, but because I’m jealous. Inside, I’m green with envy because I’ve never had what she has, even though I lived under my parents’ roof until the day I left.
These people even rallied around Addy like a family should after some man from her father’s past came after her, holding her at gunpoint in her own vineyard. She’s been through so much. I can’t say I’ve ever had that kind of support.
Evan shoots me his boyish grin that I’m sure won Mary over in a heartbeat. “You’re not going to disappoint my new girlfriend, are you? I mean, you wouldn’t let me down like that, right?”
“I don’t know—” I start, hoping to put him off yet again, wondering how creative I’ll have to get, when my attention is drawn to the door. My breath catches.
It’s him.
He’s been coming in every day for a while now. When the lunch hour hits or when we’re near on closing at six, he gets a sandwich, soup, or sometimes both. And he always orders more than one dessert—usually two or three, which I find strange. But I take his order—one that never includes a single fruit or vegetable—and submit it to Maggie. I make every excuse I can think of to clean up the storage room or kitchen so I don’t have to deliver his to-go order.
This is because he’s probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Rich, dark-brown hair with hints of deep gold, it looks as if he spends his days lounging on the beach, even though I doubt this is true. He doesn’t look like the lounging kind of guy. He’s big, really big, and his presence commands attention, even though I can tell he wants none of it. Every time I’ve seen him enter the tasting room, his eyes never wander and he never smiles, trying not to draw attention to himself, even though his efforts are a lost cause.
His expression always remains stoic and apathetic, but underneath his features are strong, rigid, and masculine. His medium complexion is in stark contrast to his eyes—so bright blue, the first time I looked into them, they were blinding.
Blinding, but also wounded.
I don’t question the fact there’s pain hidden there, because I recognize it. I’ve seen it in the mirror for a while. Only recently have I noticed it fading in my own eyes—but still, it’s there.
Even if I didn’t notice his inner pain, it’s plain to see he’s been wounded physically. As big as he is, he moves gingerly, as his arm is casted and in a sling that’s wrapped tight to his body with a wedge under his arm. His face looks better, but the first time I saw him, he was bruised and battered in a way that matched his eyes.
All of this, his beauty mixed with his injuries, only fuels my fascination.
There’s obviously something wrong with me.
Whenever he comes in, he strides straight to the bar, never makes small talk or asks for the daily specials. He orders and waits, then he pays and leaves. If I’m here long enough, I see it happen twice a day.
