It Will Always Be You (You Series Book 1) (6 page)

The truck’s interior is plush black and red leather, with chrome details everywhere. It is without a doubt a limited edition or custom truck. Very sleek and sexy. He closes my door and makes his way around. I realize I have hardly said a word. I am way out of my league with this man. Heat rushes to my face. He climbs in with ease and guides his seatbelt into its holster.

Say something already, Elizabeth,
my subconscious screams at me like a child.

The truck’s in gear and we’re heading west to Blackwater.

Don’t blow this, Elizabeth. Your first possible chance at—well, who knows what, but take what you can get.

I feel his eyes on me. “You okay, Elizabeth?”

Swallowing hard, I look his way. “Oh, sorry. Yes, everything’s great. Just a long day, I guess.”

“You feel up to having cocktails tonight? We could do it another time if you’d like?” He reaches for his sunglasses in the visor, clearly blinded by the golden glow of the sun setting on the horizon.

“No, no, no. This is exactly what I need after the day I had—heck, the
week
I’ve had.” I hope he doesn’t ask why my week was so draining. I can’t tell him how he consumes my thoughts and that he has awakened my every fantasy, how the pressure of quitting my job to pursue my dream has me scared to death, how I suspect that someone is watching me.

“Well, good. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to turn around. My week has been rather exhausting as well. Nothing the green fairy can’t fix.”

“What”—I laugh—“the heck is a green fairy?”

“It’s another name for absinthe, which is often green in color. Although a true, quality absinthe isn’t a vibrant green like many low-quality brands out there. Those have added color. Green fairy is a nickname given to absinthe by the French for its ability to heighten your senses, help you focus and stimulate creativity.”

“Well, bring on the green fairy then,” I say while shifting to lean onto my arm rest and cross my legs.

“Ready to hallucinate?” A quick laugh fills the truck.

“I thought you said—”

“Only joking. I promise you won’t hallucinate.”

Along the side of the building is a row of park spaces. His monstrous truck fills every inch of the parking space. A few cars down, I spot three ladies gawking at him as he gets out of the truck. Their curious stares keep my attention as I open the door. He is just in time to take my hand for the step down.

Again he offers up his arm. I feel their eyes on us as we make our way to the front of the building. Who can blame them? Any woman who witnesses a man this breathtakingly handsome stepping out of a sexy, shiny truck and claims not to be left with wet panties is a damn liar.

Blackwater Lounge is jam-packed, but we manage to find a vacant brown leather club chair and ottoman. Marshall offers me the chair, but I insist on having a seat upon the ottoman. I pat the chair, gesturing him to sit as I ease down onto the ottoman.

He laughs and takes a seat in the club chair.

“You open to some new flavors?” He winks at me.

“Sure. I’ll try anything once.” But what I really want to tell him is that
he’s
the new flavor I want.

The place is dimly lit, with an ambiance that makes me wish it were the 1950s. A large piece of artwork adorns the entire wall to the right of us, with a lounge scene much like where we are sitting, with multiple well-dressed, classy-looking gentleman and a few dressed-to-kill women; one of them—if my little knowledge of the era serves me right—appears to be Audrey Hepburn. No one here tonight is dressed to the nines, which is quite a shame. Why on earth did such fabulous style ever go away?

Straight ahead of us, a large group in a circular, high-backed, oversized booth is toasting a tall, slender man in the middle of the pack. Their drinks look spectacular under the overhead lights. Each drink is a different color: bright green, blue, pink, and an assortment of ambers. I can’t help but wonder what each of those bright, pretty drinks is. A design idea pops into my head: a series of cocktail art pieces that magnifies their vibrant colors up against a black background. I make a mental note never to forget it.

I sense Marshall’s eyes on me as I scout the room, but I don’t look over at him. I let him keep watching me and enjoy the attention.

“Pretty neat place, isn’t it?” he says. “It kind of reminds me of one of my favorite bars in New York.”

This place is unlike anything our tourist- and college-driven town has ever had to offer, and growing up with a father unwilling to spend money on travel, I have seen little outside of Minnesota.

A pretty blond waitress in a black-and-white dress comes over to take our order. “What can I get for the two of you?” Her eyes widen as she looks at Marshall. “Mr. Roderick,” she says nervously. My guts twist with the thought that Marshall may know her personally.
Was she one of his notches?

“Let’s start with two hobnobs,” he says, his big smile exposing a set of white teeth that matches the rest of him:
perfect.
“Better start you off with something mild.” He shoots a cute half smile at me and hands his credit card to the waitress. The waitress takes a longer-than-necessary look at him and then glances over at me. She stands there several moments too long before raising an unpleasant eyebrow at me and walking away. Marshall, who is working his wallet back into his pocket, doesn’t even notice the waitress’s odd behavior. These looks are likely a regular occurrence for any woman seen with Marshall. He is probably so used to the looks, he never notices. It leaves my nerves a bit raw. My eyes begin to travel over the lounge again as I try to regain my composure.

I can sense him watching me looking around. He stays silent, so I take it as my cue to start the conversation.

“This place is great. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.” I can’t hide the bit of awe in my voice. With so many things to look at, I’m tempted to suggest we wander around and see the rest of the place. But I don’t want to give up our spot, which couldn’t be more perfect since our close proximity requires our legs to touch at all times.

“Did you notice the bar on our way in? The whole thing is lit up from underneath,” he says.

“No, I must have missed it,” I say as I strain to swallow, once again reminded how out of touch I am with the rest of the world. And being next to Marshall could probably make me forget my own name.

He leans back in his chair. “Here. Lean forward. It’s around the corner, but you can see some of it from here.”

My heart jumps as I rise to my feet to lean over him for a look. My legs are positioned between his as I place my hands on either side of the chair and lean in for a look. I spot the bar, which I have no idea how I could have missed on the way in, but I pause, feeling his warm breath skim over my exposed shoulder.

“Wow that is so cool,” I say before reluctantly retreating to the ottoman and nestling back in. “They did a great job with the details in this place. I love the furniture, and the artwork gives it so much character. It’s just what I would have done.”

He leans forward with his elbows on his knees as if he doesn’t want to miss a word I say. “You seem to have a big interest in the décor.”

“Well, it’s a passion of mine. I’m hoping to someday have my own interior design business.” My heartbeat becomes rapid as I await his reply.

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I’ve done several side jobs, including Beacon Pointe. That’s actually how I started working there. I did their redesign, and well, it was a constant paycheck, so I figured I’d stay there for a while and save up for my own business.”

“How long have you been working at Beacon Pointe?”

I feel my face get warmer. I’d hoped he wouldn’t ask. I have let myself once again get too comfortable in everyday life like when I was with Gavin, taking no risks and not really living my life. Money is only an excuse to not take any chances, when in truth, it’s the overwhelming fear of failure.

“Four years. Manager for three of them,” I throw in.

“Maybe I should hire you to do some work at our distilleries.”

My throat tightens. “Sure” is all I manage to get out before the waitress arrives with our drinks. Just the idea of working for Marshall makes me jumpy.

She places the drink in my hand with a cocktail napkin wrapped around it. As she walks away, I peel the napkin back revealing a little yellow colored drink. With a scrunched-up face, I look at Marshall. “I thought it was supposed to be green.”

“Well, like I said, a true, quality absinthe isn’t very green. There are also pink and white variations. Only one of our products is white, but regardless of the color, once you add some grapefruit, gin, and lime, you kind of lose the green.”

“Gin too? I thought you said this would be mild.” I shoot him another confused look.

“Take a sip, and see what you think.”

The glass touches my lips, and I pour my first taste into my mouth. I hope I will truly like it. This is his passion, and I would love to share it with him. The ice-cold liquid flirts with my tongue. I hold it in my mouth for a few moments before swallowing. Grapefruit is the first flavor I recognize. It isn’t until I swallow that I taste the licorice. My tongue begins to tingle, making me blush. I know he’s watching me and noting my first taste of the green fairy.

I lick my lips. “Mmm. I like it.”

“Good.” He looks utterly pleased. “A black fairy is another one you may want to try. It’s a little stronger, but you get a better taste of the absinthe.”

“You’re the expert. I’ll try whatever you think I’d like.” The depth of my desire to do anything to please him brings heat to my face.

“So have you always lived here in Duluth?”

“Yeah, I have. And it’s crazy—I didn’t even know we
had
a place like this in Duluth.”

“So what do you do besides work and pound Lakeside Trail pavement?” He sits back in his seat and sips his drink.

I cringe at the question. The answer will no doubt reveal the dull, humdrum life I lead.

“I hang out with Krystal from Beacon and my twin sister, Rose, mostly.” For a long moment, Marshall looks into my eyes. I can’t help but shake at the sense that he finds my simple life appealing—perhaps even a turn-on. I’m about to move closer to him when a man’s voice booms from behind me.

“Well, well. Look who’s here. Honey, this is Marshall Roderick, the man who took over the old warehouse and transformed it into a real gem.” The gray-haired man slaps Marshall on the shoulder like they’re old pals. “Marshall, this is my wife, Becky.”

Marshall stands and reaches out to shake her hand.

“This is Elizabeth.”

I stand to greet her and shift my cocktail over to other hand to shake hers. “Sorry. My hand’s a bit cold from my drink,” I say as she squeezes my hand.

“It’s all right, dear.” Her smile is warm and welcoming, and a twinkle dances in her cheerful brown eyes.

The guys chat for a few a minutes before Becky grabs my hand and leans in toward my ear. “Sorry to interrupt your evening, dear. My husband—as you can tell—is quite the chatterbox.”

I laugh, loving her sweet sincerity. “It’s not a problem.” And I mean it. I’m enjoying watching Marshall interact with this man who is clearly in awe of him.

Their laughing and back slapping continues until the man finally says, “You two should join us. This round is on me.”

Becky finally shakes her head and interrupts her husband’s rambling. “Lenny, let’s leave this nice couple to their evening.” She tugs on his arm, and they walk away, but only after Lenny gives Marshall one last shoulder slap. Becky turns to us. “You two have a wonderful evening. It was great to meet you.”

We both settle back into our seats, and Marshall says, “Lenny—shoot. I’m usually pretty good with names. Sorry I didn’t introduce you. I couldn’t for the life of me remember that guy’s name, and I’d hoped he’d offer it.”

“No big deal. You know him from work?”

“He stops in the distillery every so often, but the only time I spoke with him at any length was at our grand opening over three years ago.”

“Well, he certainly didn’t forget you.”

Marshall laughs. “I guess not.”

We enjoy two more drinks, one of which was bought by the lounge’s owner when he came over to bend Marshall’s ear. I again observed how Marshall seemed to know more people than I do in this town, and his popularity says a lot about this town’s love of drinking. My intrigue only grows further as the lounge owner thanks him for his generous donation at his son’s fundraiser. I guess even playboys can have big hearts. I can’t help but feel that my mistrust is somehow unwarranted. But still, how can you misunderstand a hotel room full of women? And who knows how that waitress really knows him.

I have Marshall’s attention all evening. He seems truly interested as he asks me questions about design—what I like, what I don’t, why I love it—all easy questions to answer, much to my relief. None of his questions requires me to go into any of my past. I easily avoid my train wreck of a relationship and the fact that I have done so very little with my life since completing my interior design course. He seems careful not to talk about the past, and it’s totally fine with me, but I can’t help but wonder why?

As the night slips by, the place becomes much louder, making it hard to hear him. I make a gutsy move and take a seat on the arm of his chair, my face slightly higher than his. His ear is alarmingly close to my mouth, making me yearn to lick it from bottom to top. My nose fills with the unique aroma of sweet licorice mixed with the luscious scent of him. He takes the last sip of his cocktail and sets it down on the ottoman. His eyes are now locked with mine. He grips my hand to pull me in closer. I close my eyes, anticipating his kiss, but instead, I feel his warm breath on my neck.

He whispers in my ear, “You’re really amazing, Elizabeth.” His hand is still on mine, and our eyes meet once again.

For a moment, I believe him, but I remind myself that he most likely says this to all the “beautiful ladies” and that sex is all he wants. My desire for more than just sex from this man is growing by the minute, making me uneasy and angry at myself for being so easy to manipulate. Since I haven’t seen a ring or noticed a trace of one on his hand, I conclude that he isn’t married. He must be Peter’s cousin, which should make me feel bad for Peter, but this powerful force I feel when I’m near Marshall—I don’t know that I could stop myself. I don’t think I can stand another minute without his lips on mine.