telling her she wasn’t ready yet. She could save for another year. There was a flicker of relief in that. See…? You gave it a go. It didn’t work out.
No way. She wasn’t folding after only three days, a few blisters and a broken tooth. Jackson had offered her a base of operations. She’d hang onto that. She tightened her fingers around the shoe strap, adjusted the position of the tiger purse on her shoulder and climbed to the porch of her temporary home.
Inside, all was silent, so she knew Jackson was still sleeping. She peeled off the other shoe and flopped onto the couch. Discouragement swelled up like the flu, making her joints ache and her stomach roil. Everywhere she turned, the answer was sorry, nothing, not yet, try again. She couldn’t even get laid, dammit, she remembered, picturing Jackson’s big male body in the master bed. Did he sleep in the nude or in his underwear? Those plaid boxer briefs were hot….
Why was she thinking this now? Her life was in shambles.
Actually, it helped. That little jab of sexual adrenaline goaded her into action. She should stay busy. There was more cleaning to do, for sure. The floors in the kitchen and hallway needed scrubbing and that could be cathartic. After that, she would check the paper for jobs. When Jackson got up, she would ask to borrow his computer to put together a résumé. There. A plan.
She changed into a pair of Lycra shorts and a crop top donated by Jackson’s friend, filled a bucket with soapy water and lemon cleaner and got busy in the kitchen with the sponge mop.
Man, it felt good to shove that mop across the floor. She pushed down hard, really getting into it, banging the baseboards, each stroke a blow against her bad luck. Tears came and she let them run, pretending it was just perspiration. She inhaled the warm lemon of the cleanser and told herself she was making lemonade, though things seemed too sour for all the sugar in the world.
Not long after that, she was scraping madly at the wax in the corners of the kitchen, when a voice spoke. “What the hell are you doing?”
She started and stared up at a sleepy-looking Jackson. “Did I wake you? Sorry.” She thought the kitchen was far enough away that her noise wouldn’t reach him. “These floors are filthy.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her forearm, so he’d think she was just sweating heavily, not crying her eyes out.
“I thought the rats were bowling in the walls.” He scratched himself…there.
She darted her eyes away, feeling heat in her cheeks.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stop scratching. “Sorry. Not used to company.”
“It’s your house.” She sat with her back against the cupboards, legs outstretched on the damp floor.
He sat beside her, legs parallel to hers. She kind of liked that, as if it were the two of them against the world…or her latest crisis. “I thought you were doing hair today.”
“Plumbing’s out at the salon. And the job’s…not enough.” Her traitorous lip vibrated madly. “I need a second one.”
“Bummer.” He studied her with sympathy.
She hated that and looked straight ahead. “I’ll checkthe paper. Could I borrow your computer to put together a résumé?”
“Sure. If you want.”
The idea of all that preparation and interviewing and hassle exhausted her. Plus, how would she juggle it with hair work? She looked at him and had a blindingly brilliant idea. “What about your bar? Could you use another waitress?”
“My bar? We’re a little shorthanded, but…”
“I need something that doesn’t interfere with the salon.”
“It’s not your kind of place, Heidi.” He shook his head.
“What does that mean? What’s my kind of place?”
He assessed her. “You’d be happier in a family restaurant. The guy who owns the bar knows people in the business. I can ask him.”
“For God’s sake, I’ve been in bars before. Cocktail waitresses make better money, for sure.”
“But Moons is not the
No way. She wasn’t folding after only three days, a few blisters and a broken tooth. Jackson had offered her a base of operations. She’d hang onto that. She tightened her fingers around the shoe strap, adjusted the position of the tiger purse on her shoulder and climbed to the porch of her temporary home.
Inside, all was silent, so she knew Jackson was still sleeping. She peeled off the other shoe and flopped onto the couch. Discouragement swelled up like the flu, making her joints ache and her stomach roil. Everywhere she turned, the answer was sorry, nothing, not yet, try again. She couldn’t even get laid, dammit, she remembered, picturing Jackson’s big male body in the master bed. Did he sleep in the nude or in his underwear? Those plaid boxer briefs were hot….
Why was she thinking this now? Her life was in shambles.
Actually, it helped. That little jab of sexual adrenaline goaded her into action. She should stay busy. There was more cleaning to do, for sure. The floors in the kitchen and hallway needed scrubbing and that could be cathartic. After that, she would check the paper for jobs. When Jackson got up, she would ask to borrow his computer to put together a résumé. There. A plan.
She changed into a pair of Lycra shorts and a crop top donated by Jackson’s friend, filled a bucket with soapy water and lemon cleaner and got busy in the kitchen with the sponge mop.
Man, it felt good to shove that mop across the floor. She pushed down hard, really getting into it, banging the baseboards, each stroke a blow against her bad luck. Tears came and she let them run, pretending it was just perspiration. She inhaled the warm lemon of the cleanser and told herself she was making lemonade, though things seemed too sour for all the sugar in the world.
Not long after that, she was scraping madly at the wax in the corners of the kitchen, when a voice spoke. “What the hell are you doing?”
She started and stared up at a sleepy-looking Jackson. “Did I wake you? Sorry.” She thought the kitchen was far enough away that her noise wouldn’t reach him. “These floors are filthy.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her forearm, so he’d think she was just sweating heavily, not crying her eyes out.
“I thought the rats were bowling in the walls.” He scratched himself…there.
She darted her eyes away, feeling heat in her cheeks.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stop scratching. “Sorry. Not used to company.”
“It’s your house.” She sat with her back against the cupboards, legs outstretched on the damp floor.
He sat beside her, legs parallel to hers. She kind of liked that, as if it were the two of them against the world…or her latest crisis. “I thought you were doing hair today.”
“Plumbing’s out at the salon. And the job’s…not enough.” Her traitorous lip vibrated madly. “I need a second one.”
“Bummer.” He studied her with sympathy.
She hated that and looked straight ahead. “I’ll checkthe paper. Could I borrow your computer to put together a résumé?”
“Sure. If you want.”
The idea of all that preparation and interviewing and hassle exhausted her. Plus, how would she juggle it with hair work? She looked at him and had a blindingly brilliant idea. “What about your bar? Could you use another waitress?”
“My bar? We’re a little shorthanded, but…”
“I need something that doesn’t interfere with the salon.”
“It’s not your kind of place, Heidi.” He shook his head.
“What does that mean? What’s my kind of place?”
He assessed her. “You’d be happier in a family restaurant. The guy who owns the bar knows people in the business. I can ask him.”
“For God’s sake, I’ve been in bars before. Cocktail waitresses make better money, for sure.”
“But Moons is not the
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