Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I take the road before the main entrance to the Club. It’s the one for goods and deliveries. I pull up in front of the kitchen entrance. There’s not usually anyone out here, but this morning, there’re a couple of staff outside who look like they’re having an argument. They don’t even notice I’m here.
“He’s bringing his entire crew from New York,” one says to the other. “We can’t use that shitty steak.”
Yikes. I’m pleased I don’t work here. And I’m really pleased I’m not delivering shitty fruit. The fruit we bring up to the Colorado Club is the best. All the fruit from Wilde’s Farm is great, but the Colorado Club gets the top-tier stuff.
I open the truck and pull out one of the crates. There are five to bring in. Hopefully I’ll find someone in the kitchen who’s in a better mood than the two guys whose argument is still going on.
I enter the door that leads to the kitchen. There’s a corridor, and on the left the room that leads to the huge walk-in refrigerator, and on the right, the entrance to the kitchen that’s been propped open with a large box that says it contains olive oil. I hover outside. “Hello!” I call. “Fruit delivery.”
No one answers. There’s usually more people around and it’s easy to find one of the kitchen staff who will sign for the delivery. Today the atmosphere seems a little different.
I slide the crate into the store room and poke my head into the kitchen. People are huddled over on the other side, all listening to a guy wearing a white bandana talk. They’re all nodding and looking very serious. The swing doors that lead out of the other side of the kitchen—presumably to the restaurant—opens and a familiar face dressed in black trousers and a white shirt enters.
We lock eyes.
“Stephanie?” I ask. Stephanie, who moved to Vegas. Who, until this year, my family thought I visited every year. What’s she doing at the Colorado Club?
“Iris!” she says, beaming, and she comes over and we hug.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I heard you were in town.”
“I keep hearing your name too. I’m so glad we ran into each other. What are you doing here?”
“Delivering fruit.”
“Oh, I can help you with that,” she says. “The chefs are having their daily meltdown early today.” She rolls her eyes. “And all at the same time. You won’t get any help out of them.”
“You work here?” I ask as we head out to the truck.
“Yeah, I got a job as restaurant manager. It’s weird to be back. But not quite back, if you know what I mean.”
“So you’re here to stay?”
She grins. “Unless I get fired!”
“Wow, I had no idea.”
We get to my truck and I pull off a crate and hand it to her, taking another for myself.
“I was hoping I’d run into you, actually,” she says, leading us back to the kitchen. “From what I’ve heard, people think we’re still close. I’ve spoken to a few who think you came out to visit me in Vegas.”
My cheeks burn hot, and I don’t know what to say. I’m such a horrible liar. If I deny it, my blush would be enough to give me away.
“Oh, yeah,” I say.
Stephanie puts her crate next to my first one in the store room. I slot mine on top.
She stands, looking at me, waiting for me to say more.
I take in a breath and try not to wince. “I’ve told people I go and visit you in Vegas once a year.”
She lets out a small laugh. “Okay,” she says. “So I’ve acted as a cover without even knowing it.”
“I didn’t expect you’d be back in town, given your entire family left.”
“Apparently not. Well, I’ve managed to give vague responses, so I haven’t blown your cover. But now I’m intrigued.”
I head out first this time. There are two crates left in the truck.
“I just need a weekend to myself,” I say. That’s the truth. Sort of. “I always thought I’d leave Star Falls after high school, then my mom died and I ended up staying. I just take a weekend every year to… I don’t know. Spread my wings or something.”
She leans against the truck, ready to chat rather than reach for the last of the crates. “I heard about your mom. I’m sorry. She was always really kind to me.”
I smile, genuinely thankful for her words. It’s been a while since I’ve had condolences for my mother’s death. “Thanks.”
“You were going to go to ballet school, weren’t you?”
“You have a good memory,” I say.
“You were obsessed. When you weren’t training, you were watching ballet.”
“Not much time for any of that now.”
“You don’t dance at all?”
“Nope,” I say, and pick up one of the last two crates and head back inside.