I know it was never Rafe’s intention to earn my lifelong devotion with a single kind gesture, but once he caught my attention, he didn’t let go. I couldn’t be out on the floor and not eavesdrop on his conversations. I didn’t have ill intent; I just liked knowing what he was up to. I loved being around him, even from a distance.
Anytime he came in while I was working, I swapped tables so I could wait on his. He always brought in his girlfriend, and I didn’t like her at all, but she was irrelevant. If she made him happy with her hollow smile and her perfect face, then fine. I just wanted to bask in his sunshine, to memorize a few minutes of him and keep myself warm with it until next time he came in.
Back then he didn’t have a regular routine, so it was hit or miss. He would be there or he wouldn’t. Maybe I would be working, maybe not. If I knew he came in when I was off, I felt disappointed. I started working more days to lessen the chance of that happening. In my mind, working at his restaurant, I could help him anyway. I could keep things running smoothly and that would be one less headache for him. The manager was a douche, but he started working here long before I did. I figured someday this guy would move along and I’d be the manager, then Rafe would never have any problems at the restaurant. It could be his happy place—the one place he knows he can kick back in safety (I also keep an ear to the ground for anyone who might wish to harm him), relax, have a drink, have good food served exactly the way he likes it… It’s a little thing, but it makes him happy, and it’s something I can do for him. Something I like doing for him.
Life was good. I was content. Then after about two weeks of not seeing Rafe once (and not knowing how I could have missed him, since I worked six days a week), I ducked into the manager’s office while he was closing up. Nightly paperwork is collected in a folder, and every Sunday night, Rafe is supposed to come get it for his own records.
While the manager is counting the safe, I grab the folder and take a peek. Two weeks of reports. He didn’t come to collect them last week.
“Is Rafe coming by tonight to get the reports?” I inquire, casually.
He counts rolls of quarters, then leans back. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“They’re just backed up. He usually comes every Sunday. I don’t think I’ve seen him in here to eat lately either. Is everything okay?”
The manager is snide, because he’s jealous. He’s made many comments about the dirty things he would like to do to Rafe’s girlfriend—like she would ever look at this scrub when she has Rafe Morelli. “Pretty boy can’t take a break-up, I guess.”
My heart stalls. “What?”
“The hot blonde dumped him. That’s what I hear, anyway.”
That’s terrible. I mean, she’s a moron, especially if she broke up with him, but if Rafe is so heartbroken that he can’t even be bothered to do his work… God, that makes me sad.
I hope he’s okay.
I take the folder with me and go back to the kitchen. Rafe’s not much for dessert, but I know what he likes when he indulges, so I grab a to-go container and plop a slice of classic cheesecake in it. All break-ups should come with comfort sweets.
I’m done with my work, so I clock out and leave. I don’t tell the manager I’m taking the reports or the cheesecake, and the asshat doesn’t notice. When I have his job, things like this will not happen.
I already have Rafe’s home address—and phone number—memorized. I can’t help being creepy. I only have to see it once and it’s committed to memory, but in this instance, at least, it’s helpful.
I frown as I pull into his driveway. His car is in the drive, but the parking job is so crooked, it looks like a four-year-old parked it. Alarm hits me for the first time. I park my car, grab his cheesecake and the folder, and head for his front door. I knock rapidly, but I’m so worried, I don’t wait more than a minute before letting myself in.
Should he really be leaving his house unlocked? That seems like a terrible idea.
I should probably make my presence known so he doesn’t think I’m an intruder. I don’t want to get shot.
“Hello?” I call out, looking around the enormous house. Jeeze, I could fit two of my apartment in his foyer.
There are too many different places to go. There’s an arch to the left, an arch to the right, and a spiral staircase tucked in the back right corner. I hear no noise anywhere, so wherever he is, it’s probably not in one of the front rooms.
I wonder if maybe he’s in bed. It’s not super late, but if he’s sad, it might be late enough. I’ve gone to bed at 8 o’clock mid-heartbreak before. It’s a rough time.
It takes a long time before I find him. This house has a lot of rooms. Mostly unused rooms, it seems, but so many rooms.
Did not expect the one I find him in, though. Libraries, studies, bedrooms, a weight room—none of that shocked me. I don’t initially even understand what kind of room I’m standing in when I open that door and step inside. There’s furniture I have never seen before, certainly not fit for entertaining. A black cushioned bench with a weird extended part on the bottom. A big X-shaped… thing. Everything in here is foreign to me—until I notice a rack of floggers and an assortment of what I think might be sex toys.
Oh, shit. This is a sex room.
I immediately stop looking around, not wanting to notice anything else and imagine him and Cassandra in here. Gross, gross, gross. Well, not him. But her. Yuck.
Rafe is lying on the floor with a redhead. They’re side by side, not on top of each other, and both are fully clothed, though the material is all askew. I imagine some clumsy groping happened, but they’re also euphoric and oblivious to my presence in a way that doesn’t seem quite normal. Rafe laughs at something the redhead says, but he still doesn’t notice me.
I swallow, looking her over. She’s gorgeous—beautiful hair, flawless face, perfect figure. Even lying there in the floor with her dress riding up her thighs, photographers for Vogue could take her picture and call it fashion.
I glance down at my highly unattractive work pants, at the black button-down that smells like a 12-hour day. There’s little point comparing, because that would just be sad, but Jessica Rabbit over here with her perfect everything… well, she’d win, let’s just say that.
That doesn’t matter. I shake my head to clear it, then clear my throat to make my presence known.