All To Myself Page 2

  “Stop complaining. If you’re not smart enough to ask for help after being hit by a car, I don’t trust you to be smart enough to clean yourself up before slapping a bandage on there.”

  He returned to her and knelt. Dripping washcloth in one hand, he drew her legs apart with the other.

  She wanted to clip her knees back together. His expression was all business, but for Rory it still felt like such a dirty move.

  “So where were you going today?” he asked as he swabbed the wound.

  “Work.”

  “Where do you work?”

  She curled her toes in her cheap canvas sneakers and flailed for an answer that wasn’t The White Tip. He looked up at her with a grin. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I saw your uniform when you went for your key. You work at The White Tip, like your sister.” He refolded the washcloth into a clean square, then wiped up the dried river of blood that ran from her knee to her ankle. “Why didn’t you want me to know?”

  “I didn’t want to get fired,” she said, but it wasn’t true. She couldn’t say for sure why she didn’t want him to know. As soon as she’d realized who he was she’d wanted to scurry away and not be a bartender working for squat.

  “I hit you. If anyone is going to get fired, it’s going to be me.”

  “Fired from what?”

  She hadn’t meant to sound so derisive, but seriously? From surfing? From sunning himself? From fucking?

  “I’m shadowing my father this summer. I … well, I had a work term last year and screwed around too much. I can’t graduate until I put in the hours somewhere and get a decent evaluation, so rather than wait until next semester to start from scratch, I’m getting a crash course from my father.”

  “I’d heard you already graduated.”

  “That’s what my folks are telling people when they ask. It sounds better than, ‘Noah? Yeah, he’s a screw up barely scraping by with a C-average, and he called in sick for sixty percent of his work term.’”

  “Why didn’t you just work for your dad in the first place?”

  “I did, at the ski lodge in Ontario. He gave me a shitty evaluation and told me he wouldn’t hire me to clean toilets.”

  He rose up and returned to the bathroom. She listened to the water running and worried her stomach into a gurgling mess wondering if this role at The White Tip would put him as her supervisor at any point. Hopefully he’d be relegated to the office and stay the hell out of the lounge.

  “And what’s your story?” he asked when he returned, and gave her leg another rubdown.

  “I work in the lounge.” There was no point in hiding it now that he knew she had been on her way there. “This is my last summer. I’m going to the mainland to go to school.”

  “Undergrad?”

  “Community college.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Human resources.” It sounded so small and insignificant coming out of her mouth now compared to his expensive albeit spectacularly wasted education in business.

  “Do you really want to work with a bunch of people complaining about their benefits?”

  “I like people, and there are no jobs here. I don’t want to stay and serve drinks all summer, then go work in the grocery store all winter.”

  “I don’t like people,” he admitted, and set the wet rag aside. “I like them if they do what I say, but otherwise I don’t like them.”

  “And you’re going into the family business? All hotels and resorts?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. After four years of university, I still don’t know what I want to do with my life.”

  He unzipped the first aid kit and produced an alcohol swab.

  Rory scuttled back. “I don’t need that.”

  “The cut was filthy. You don’t want to get infected.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, and when he grabbed her ankle she pulled it back. “I don’t like pain.”

  “For fuck’s sake.”

  He regained his hold on her and tore into the package with his teeth. Rory braced herself as he propped his wrist above the cut. She could feel the sting even before he made contact.

  “Motherfucker! Ow! Ooowww! Cocksucker!”

  Noah burst out laughing. “You’ve got one hell of a mouth on you.”

  “I told you I don’t like pain!”

  “Stop being a little bitch and take it like a woman.”

  She gripped the edge of the sofa and bucked up as he cleaned the wound.

  God, was there any worse pain than this? Water torture and cigarette burns had nothing on the sizzling pain of alcohol meeting on wounded flesh.

  “It’s really not that bad,” he said, and she almost kicked him.

  “No, you’re wrong. It hurts.”

  “I mean the cut. You were bleeding like hell, but now that it’s stopped and I can see the cut, it’s not too bad. Your knee is pretty puffy, though.”

  “Can you please hurry up?”

  He laughed again, and then bowed his head and began to blow on the cut.

  The agony disappeared instantly. Without its bite to focus on, Rory was keenly aware of his proximity. His hand formed a fist midway up her thigh. The other gripped her calf. Her thoughts, scattered by the pain, came together in her mind as a buzzing mess.

  The cottage was so quiet, the only sound the slight whistle as he soothed her ache. He wore a concentrated frown, but when he looked up at her his expression changed.

  A smile teased the corners of his puckered mouth. His grip on her softened. He splayed his fingers across her calf and held onto her gaze while he pressed his lips to the wound.

  It wasn’t a simple peck. It was a kiss that lingered soft against her skin. The pleasure it gave paralyzed her. She was trapped in her own body as her heart thumped into her throat and her face filled with heat, and nowhere else was she more throbbing than between her legs.

  Noah lifted his head and grinned. “I always wanted to kiss and make it better.”

  “Uh huh.”

  As he went for a bandage, she wondered if he was oblivious to what he had just done to her or if he was being gentlemanly. She concluded that it was neither. He seemed to be quietly basking as he sorted through the bandages. After his bluntness in the car when he’d asked her if he’d ever fucked her, she suspected his chivalry didn’t extend to his dick.

  Still, his actions were G-rated as he stripped the paper from the bandage and pressed it to her knee, then looked up at her. “Ice?”

  She shook her head. “Not now. I’m really late. Francie is going to hand me my ass.”

  “You shouldn’t go to work.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  He frowned. “I can make you take the night off.”

  “No, you can’t. I don’t take orders from an intern.”

  “Maybe not, but I can call my father.”

  She tilted her head and raised her brows. “Seriously? That’s the hand you’re playing? You’ll call Daddy to get me to do what you want?”

  “Are you stunned or something? You were hit by a car.”

  “You just bumped me. I’ve had worse slips on wet pavement.”

  Seconds ticked by as they glared at one another. Finally, he grunted in defeat. “Fine, but after I drop you off I’m having a word with Francie about getting you some help at the bar.”

  “And split my tips? No way.”

  As he stuffed the contents back into the kit, she tried bending her knee. It was like trying to squeeze an invisible volleyball.

  Then his words hit her. “Wait, what? Who said anything about driving me to work?”

  He ventured back into the bathroom. “You said you were late.”

  “That wasn’t my way of asking you for a drive.”

  “What’s the problem?” he called.

  She took a second before answering him. Again, she considered lying, but there was something in his tone that suggested he already knew why she objected.

  “
Because people might think I did fuck you.”

  His laughter filled the cottage. “Yeah, that would be pretty terrible.”

  “You have a reputation, and so do the girls you’re seen with.”

  He emerged wiping his hands. His amused expression was infuriating. “What repressed time warp did I drive into? Is dancing illegal, too?”

  “It’s a small town. We smile to the tourists and talk shit about everyone else behind their back.”

  “Let me tell you something. All of those girls--no, women--I’ve hooked up with weren’t exactly flaunting their purity rings.”

  He draped the towel over a kitchen table and folded his arms over his chest. She tried not to notice how gorgeous his forearms were. Tried, and failed, and bit down to keep from whimpering a little with wanting to touch him.

  “I still don’t want everyone thinking it.”

  “Who cares if they do? God, if you’re going to be so worried about what people think you might as well stay here for the rest of your life, work at the bar, and wring your hands.” He chuckled and leaned forward. “Can you stop arguing with me? I’m getting a headache. Let me drive you to work and I promise I won’t come and flirt with you while you’re working tonight.”

  She frowned. “You weren’t going to do that, were you?”

  “Hell yeah, I was. You’re cute as a button, and you’ve got great tits.”

  Speechless and burning once more, Rory watched the devilish smile take over his whole face and thought to herself, so this is how he does it.

  His laughter took over. He raised a brow as if he wanted to say something more, but shook it away. “Come on. The faster we get there, the faster I can ruin your reputation.”

  She managed to stay on her feet as they went back to his car, arguing that she’d have to get used to it once she got to The White Tip. She hunkered down as they drove back into the park, and she gave some thought to covering her face as he parked next to the employee entrance at the rear.

  Oh God. Fiona.

  A waitress she’d known since grade school was smoking next to the dumpster. She gawked as Noah Hyland hopped out of the car and strolled around to the passenger side where Rory waited, mortified.

  “You know what I said about not coming into the bar tonight?” he asked as he helped her out.

  “You lied.”

  “No, I’ll stay away … for tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on your knee. If there’s no improvement, I’m personally taking you to the hospital. If you need a ride home tonight, send a message down to my chalet and I’ll take you.” He grinned at her as he jumped back into the car. “I’ll go back for your bike and leave it under your porch.”

  She cast a glance at Fiona, who lifted her shoulders and mouthed what the fuck?

  “Just leave the bike out front.”

  “Someone will steal it. Besides, you probably won’t be able to drive it tomorrow.” He got behind the wheel and draped his arm around the back of the passenger seat. She wondered if Fiona thought the gesture as sexy as she did. “See you tomorrow, Rory.”

  “Bye, and thanks.”

  She didn’t turn around, not until he had steered round to the front of the property, and she heard him gun the engine as he hit the road leading down to the chalets. Then she braced herself and turned.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “The fuck I won’t.” Fiona poked her cigarette into the sand-filled bucket next to the door. “You just rolled up in here in Noah Hyland’s kick-ass ride. I’m not letting you go anywhere until you tell me where you let him put his dick.”

  “I didn’t let him put his dick anywhere. I was riding to work and he knocked me down with the car. He dropped me home so I could get patched up.”

  Fiona looked down Rory’s body to the bruising knee. “That’s nasty. You should sue him after he’s done fucking you.”

  “I’m not suing him, and there is no fucking.”

  “There’s going to be fucking. Trust me. No man looks at a woman like that unless he’s dying to get in her panties.”

  Rory hiked her bag up her shoulder and yanked open the door leading into the service corridor, but before she could retort she smacked face-first into Francie.

  Not for the first time in her life Rory wondered what exactly was the point in plucking out all the hair on one’s face only to pencil it back in.

  As usual, her sister was a cardboard cut-out of a fully functioning human being who happened to share the same dirty blonde hair and brown eyes as Rory. Uniform pressed and spotless. Short hair gelled against her scalp. Lips lined perfectly. Stick perpendicular up her arse.

  Francie began working at the hotel the year after their mother died, beginning as a waitress and ending with this grand finale of becoming the food and beverage manager--though, in Rory`s opinion, Francie carried herself like she was running a five star restaurant that was booked a year out.

  “Where have you been? We’ve been serving dinner for the last half hour and you’re just strolling in?”

  Every interaction with Francie was the same: she bitched, and Rory held her tongue. Rory stepped back, nudging Fiona aside as she swept her arm down to her knee. “I was in an accident on the way here.”

  Francie rolled her eyes. “Get your uniform on. Mike is ready to leave.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, Francie, thank you for asking.”

  Rory pushed past her sister, and part of her wished she had just let Noah take her to the hospital where someone would actually give a damn whether she had broken something. Another part of her, the poor part, hobbled towards the employee dressing room.

  As soon as Francie had gone back to the dining room, Rory turned to Fiona. “Can I get a ride tonight before you hit the beach? I’ll give you gas money.”

  “I should say no, since I know you got a better offer.”

  “Fiona--”

  Fiona tittered as she went to the sink. “Fine, I’ll drive you home, but don’t blame me when you’re alone and flicking the bean over what Noah Hyland could be doing with that magic dick of his.”

  Chewing on her irritation, Rory changed into her white polo and black pants. Her knee throbbed when she bent to stuff her backpack into her locker, and the memory of Noah kissing her there zipped through her.

  She turned her focus back to the pain and headed out into the dining room.

  Chapter Two

  Rory loved working at Garden View. She didn’t resent working at the cafe the way she often did at The White Tip, but a lot of her ill feelings had to do with Francie’s power trip. Plus, The White Tip had an exclusive clientele. The lounge was open to anyone, but no one from the area just popped in for a beer. The White Tip patrons were mostly honeymooners or tourists with lots of money. Most were polite and friendly, but she never felt right mingling with those sort of people. If she could go work at one of the seafood joints in the area and was able to pull in the kind of tips she did at The White Tip, she’d be gone in a shot.

  The Garden View had a different sort of atmosphere. Bus tours scheduled lunches there. Retirees came in for a cup of tea and an ice cream sundae. Local book clubs and artist groups had their luncheons in the garden.

  And working for Dawna Peters was nothing like working for Francie. Dawna had come to the island in the sixties from Florida with her draft-dodging husband and opened a dairy bar by the beach. After her husband passed away, Dawna sold the dairy bar, bought the farmhouse on the river and turned it into a cafe.

  Rory’s duties weren’t limited to drinks. Garden View didn’t do spirits or cocktails, only local wine and beer, and so she greeted customers at the beginning of their meal to take their drink orders, and met them again at the end of their meal to serve them dessert.

  Sunday was her best day of the week. Sunday was the day her favorite customer came in for seafood chowder, a slice of Red Velvet cake, and a cup of tea. Sunday was the day her grandfather drove up from town and had his feed, then had his tea with her while she took her lunch.

 
Cecil Coady had raised Rory from the time she was five years old. He took care of her mother after she got sick, and when Mary died, he raised Rory.

  He never visited Francie at The White Tip. In fact, he never visited Francie at all. He’d let her bring the kids by his house once a month and he loved her, but he didn’t care for her company. Rory was the one he was going to miss when she moved to the mainland.

  Besides, Francie would insist he meet her at The White Tip so she could show off and brag. Having worked at The White Tip as a maintenance man for forty years, Cecil wasn’t about to waltz in and take a seat at the bar.

  After her grandfather had finished flirting with Dawna, Rory took her seat with him and dug into a butterscotch sundae. Cecil got right to the point. “Why are you limping?”

  “I fell off my bike going to work the other day.”

  “You been to the doctor?”

  “It’s not as bad as it was. I woke up yesterday and my knee was the size of a grapefruit. The swelling is down now. I’ll show you when you go to the truck.”

  “You should have taken the weekend off.”

  “I need to get paid.”

  His bushy silver brows came together. It was his I have money look.

  Cecil had worked hard all his life and paid for everything out of pocket. He never carried any debts save for his mortgage, and now that he was retired he lived well below his means on three pensions and a widower’s allowance. Francie claimed he had close to a million dollars in the bank and was always whining about how he wouldn’t spend a nickel, but as far as Rory was concerned it was his money to do what he wanted with it.

  She suspected part of the reason he tried to spend it on her was because she wouldn’t take it half the time. Rory was his stubborn match. When she refused to let him pay for her prom dress, he had looked so hurt that she’d given in. The picture of the two of them standing in his front yard before the dance--Rory in her burgundy mermaid dress and immaculate makeup, and Cecil in his denims, hunting jacket and ball cap--was proudly displayed on his mantle.

  Another storm brewed when he tried to pay for her schooling. She struck a bargain with him: half her tuition and her books, and she would work for the rest. He agreed on the condition she didn’t borrow a cent in student loans, and then slyly went out and bought her a new computer to take to school with her.