Young Lies (Young Series Book 1) (24 page)

Sleep evades me even though I’m utterly exhausted from my four-hour roundtrip drive for a five minute conversation, which I know will affect the meeting tomorrow. Part of my lack of sleep is due to Samantha and trying to figure her out; part is due to the return of Leo’s nightmares. They don’t happen as much as they did when he first came home, but the level of intensity hasn’t lessened in the slightest. I’ve mostly gotten used to dealing with the nightmares in a way that doesn’t result in injury, though I have to admit, it’s not easy seeing your best friend so terrified that he doesn’t even recognize you. As an unspoken rule, we never speak about the nightmares. The few times we have, he’s gotten hostile and I finally took the hint that it wasn’t up for discussion.

In the morning, we pack up silently, Leo moving around a little more tensely than normal, which is what happens on the nights he has his nightmares and is feeling self-conscious. Over breakfast, he gives me shit about going back to the diner last night that I mostly ignore. He doesn’t understand why this girl is such an interest for me. Well, that makes two of us.

Our meeting goes exactly how we expected. The congressman I hoped to get support from gave us just that, and I hope government funding isn’t far behind, since he didn’t hesitate telling us how great he believes our company to be, focusing on how young I am to be in the position I’m in. It’s nothing new; in my field, I’m the youngest CEO, the youngest person to have the reputation I have around the world. While most guys my age are still chasing girls and figuring out what to do with their lives, I’m living in a multi-million dollar home in Upstate New York. I have cars most people can only dream about. Private plane. Boats. Vacation houses. You name it, I’ve got it. And if I don’t have it, I don’t know about it. I take my work very seriously—I have to if I want to make a name for myself—and I think people like the good congressman with whom we’ve just finished having lunch is nothing short of shocked by accomplishments at such a young age.

Aside from being known in the business world, I’m a private person. I don’t do interviews. I don’t go to clubs and act like an idiot. And I don’t get into trouble. The little the public knows about me makes me seem incredibly boring, and that’s fine with me. I didn’t grow up with money, but that doesn’t mean that now that I’ve got it I have to show it off to anyone who’s looking. Besides, that’s how you attract gold diggers. As it is, I’ve had a few of those, regardless of my attempts to keep them away. There were a couple I let stick around for a while until it became blatantly obvious what they wanted from me.

I wonder what the girl at the diner would want from me. If she wants me at all. From our very brief conversation last night, I don’t see her being
that
type of girl. She seems like a good girl. Someone who should probably run very far from me if she wants to keep on being a good girl. I may not go out seeking trouble, but I’ve attracted my fair share. I never considered myself a ladies’ man or a playboy or any of that shit. I could get deep and soulful by saying I date all these girls because I’m searching for The One I want for the rest of my life. My love. My soul mate. But the truth is I’m just not interested in real relationships. If some girl comes along one day and I see some sort of future with her, then maybe I’ll do something about it. Until then, I’m twenty-six years old. I’m going to live my fucking life the way I want to live it.

But that doesn’t stop me thinking about the girl from the diner.

-------------o-------------

It’s been three days since I first met Samantha. In that time, I’ve had four business meetings, a benefit dinner at which I was introduced to several eligible bachelorettes who attached themselves to my side for the entire evening, and a whole lot of waiting. The problem with working with the government is that there is always a waiting game involved. One congressman can’t approve the funding I’m requesting, so he has to go before different committees to argue my points for me. I’m just lucky I was able to convince him that my patent was worth funding or I’d have wasted a week of driving across fucking Iowa.

I’m irritable as I pace our hotel room. Leo is drinking his way through three six-packs and watching football. I never got the draw to football. Sports weren’t ever my thing. I suppose that’s a side effect of growing up with three sisters and a mom while your father was deployed for months on end—you go soft. Regardless, I preferred to spend my time building things, breaking things, then fixing them again. Inventing different gadgets. Dad bought me my first computer when I was fifteen and I’m pretty sure he regretted it two days later when I spent all my time locked in my bedroom teaching myself source codes and computer programming. Within a month, I figured out how to hack into my school’s grading system. A week after that, I was suspended for changing the grades of a girl I liked who didn’t so much break my heart when I asked her to a dance, as she demolished it piece by piece and went to aforementioned dance with my so-called best friend at the time. The school principal tried to hide how impressed he had been that I’d managed to hack his systems, but it was written all over his face. When I got back to school, he took me under his wing, got me interested in more involved computer classes, actually listened to my ramblings about my inventions and seemed genuinely interested. He pushed me to go to college rather than following my father’s footsteps in the military. Not that I ever told my dad that bit of information. He helped me get accepted to Stanford with a full scholarship.

And he died before he could see me graduate. In a way, Nathan Bennett was more of a father during my formative years than my actual father. That’s rather unfair to my father, but it’s true; my dad was gone on ships for most of my life and he never really showed much interest in my activities until he saw that it was actually taking me somewhere in life. It wasn’t until my business was off the ground that my father and I actually started to bond. We discovered a mutual interest in military intelligence, which I probably should have realized we had in common since that was my dad’s job in the Navy for nearly forty years. He’s the reason I got involved in a lot of the projects I have, particularly the ones that benefit the soldiers on the ground, the people like Leo who suffered from injuries and exhaustion and illness and infection. With his input my company shot to the very top of everything and made me one of the richest men in the country. I still ask him for advice constantly and seek his approval as though I’m still that skinny computer geek who couldn’t get a date to the dance.

“If you don’t stop pacing,” Leo says without looking away from the television, “I’m going to throw this bottle at you.” He waves the empty beer bottle in my direction for effect.

“I’m not pacing,” I snap, watching him smirk at the sulky tone of my voice. “Fuck you.”

He laughs, still not looking away from his football game. “Dude, just go see her,” he tells me, finally glancing at me when the game goes to commercial. “We both know what the problem is and it’s not going to be resolved until you get this girl out of your system. And we’ve only got a few days before our friend the congressman calls us with an answer and we head back to New York. Grab the fucking keys, drive back to that little podunk town, and sweep her off her feet because they’re probably very sore from working all day at that diner. Just make sure you use protection. The last thing this world needs is a miniature version of you running around this Godforsaken planet.”

Rolling my eyes, I grab my keys, telling my friend in no uncertain terms where he can stick his advice, and leave the room. Within a couple hours, I’m once again pulling up at Chet’s diner and actually feel myself smiling at the sight of her truck. At least I didn’t waste an entire morning just to find out she had the day off... 

Walking through the front door again, I only get a few curious glances from the people who saw me here last time. I don’t pay them any attention as I scan the diner for the one face that’s been burned into my mind. At first I don’t see her, and I have a strange sense of disappointment to think that maybe her truck just broke down and she left it here until she could get it fixed. Or maybe she was meeting her boyfriend here before they went off somewhere else. I now have visions of beating some faceless boy to a pulp and realize it’s the byproduct of jealousy. Now that’s a feeling I don’t experience on a regular basis. Or ever, to be more precise.

The swinging door to the kitchen opens and there she is. She looks exactly as she did a few days ago, minus the gravy stain on her skirt. I watch for several moments as she expertly carries a tray full of food and drink to one of the tables and maneuvers it in a way I don’t think I could manage even on my most graceful day without causing a catastrophe. When she finally turns around, she sees me and I pretend not to notice that she trips on her way back to the kitchen.

There’s an empty seat at the bar that I take and order coffee and pie from a lovely older woman named Doris. Samantha returns from the kitchen and scans the room just as I just did to find her. I’m not sure what to call the expression on her face—surprise, annoyance, embarrassment. Perhaps a combination of all the above. I smile at her and feel a strange flutter from within me when she returns it.

After my arrival, the diner fills up and I don’t get the chance to do more than watch her rush past me in an effort to keep up with the stream of diners. Though I could very possibly watch her all day without getting bored, I strike up conversation with a few of the locals. The weather, local gossip, the high school football team’s chances of going to state... One of the upsides to my chosen career is that while deathly boring, I often attended tedious dinners with potential clients and learned the very subtle art of mingling. By the time Kathy Saunders and I finish our conversation about her youngest son’s recent application to the University of Nebraska and her hopes that he’ll soon become a Cornhusker—I’m also highly schooled at not making inappropriate jokes to those I’m trying to impress—the dinner rush is pretty much gone.

“Oh, there he is now!”

I look toward the door where Kathy is beaming and find a tall blond boy entering the diner. Compared to what I’ve seen of the local male teenage population around here, he’s not exactly a typical build. He’s got a very boy-next-door, all-American look about him, though, and judging by the smile he gives his mother, he’s a mama’s boy. “Hi, Mom,” he says, approaching and placing a kiss on her cheek before looking over at me suspiciously.

I smile my most welcoming smile and stick out my hand. Farm manners seem to dictate that he takes the hand offered to him, whether he trusts the hand’s owner or not. “Matthew Young,” I tell him, giving his hand a few firm shakes before dropping it. “And you must be Tom.”

Tom Saunders looks at his mother questioningly. “Um, yeah,” he says.

“Matthew is just passing through,” Kathy tells her son. “He decided to have a little taste of the town before leaving.”

Tom looks at the bar where my empty pie plate and cup of coffee are sitting as though confirming his mother’s information. “Apple crumble,” he comments, nodding at the plate. “Good choice.”

“I agree,” I tell him.

“Hey, Tom!”

All three of us look over at the kitchen door to find Samantha exiting. She stops in her tracks when she sees me, her smile faltering a bit as her gaze darts between me and Tom. Why do I suddenly get the feeling I’ve been chatting up the girl’s boyfriend’s mother? Even for me, that’s a new one...

“Hey, Samantha,” Tom says, his voice a little deeper than it had been when he was speaking to me. I shoot a raised eyebrow at him, but he’s too busy staring at the potential object of my affections to notice. “We still on for tonight?”

Very reluctantly it seems, Samantha approaches the bar, standing directly in front of me. A quick inhale and I can smell a hint of strawberries permeating from either her body or her hair, I’m not sure which, but I’d damn sure like to find out. “Actually, I meant to call you,” she says regretfully, her eyes glancing at me for only a split second. “Lily needs some help studying before her test on Monday and she’s been begging me to help. Rain check?”

I glance out the corner of my eye and find with some satisfaction that Tom’s shoulders droop slightly in disappointment. Then I realize whoever this Lily person is, she’s keeping me from spending time with Samantha as well. My own shoulders droop as I commiserate with the farm boy. Unlike the farm boy, I’m not willing to give up so easily. I’ve spent the last few days with this girl on my mind, drove two hours, and sat in this fucking diner all afternoon just so I could look at her.

Even as she and Tom make arrangements for another day, her eyes continually dart to me and her blush increases. Finally Tom leaves looking as though someone kicked his puppy. Samantha watches him go with a furrowed brow and a frown on her face. Another expression to add to my memory...

Half an hour later I see her bolt out of the kitchen with a backpack over one shoulder and she’s changed out of her work clothes in exchange for jeans and a t-shirt. My jaw drops at my first sight of her curves. Yeah, there is no way I’m passing this up... She’s out the door before I can convince my muscles to go after her and halfway to her truck when I call her name. Stopping suddenly as though she’s hit a brick wall, I see her tense before turning to face me.

“Not even going to say hi?” I ask, grinning at her.

“Sorry,” she says tensely. “Hi.”

My face falls a bit. “Was that your boyfriend?” Not exactly the question I intended to ask her, but my brain apparently isn’t in charge of this operation.