The Beard (Haylee Thorne) Page 2

  “How the hell did you do that?”

  “I tried to warn you, but you didn’t want to hear me out. I worked in a whiskey bar throughout my time at culinary school. Those potato bites you’ve been munching on? I made those earlier tonight.”

  He smiles.

  “Well, they are out of this world, so hat’s off, milady.”

  I return his smile and continue.

  So, even though I could really use that money after what that piece of shit has done to me, I wouldn’t feel right taking it, I tell him as I attempt to hand him the five hundred dollars back. “It feels just like stealing candy from a baby,” I add with a wink.

  He frowns and makes no effort to try and accept his money. I place it on the bar and slide it toward him.

  “Is that piece of shit the reason why you are drinking your sorrows away tonight?”

  I nod.

  “Tell me about it.” He urges.

  For some reason—probably the alcohol—I don’t even hesitate to tell him everything. How hard I have worked all these years, how I have been financially responsible for Chris, how I was finally going to make my dreams a reality, and how hopeless everything is now. Brock listens to me patiently; he doesn’t interrupt me, and he doesn’t seem to judge me.

  “Thank you for listening and letting me unload on you, but I seem to remember that I wasn’t the only one here attempting to drink my troubles away…”

  “I’m gay,” he blurts out.

  I laugh heartily.

  “That doesn’t sound like a reason to drown your sorrows. Or are you telling me this because you’re worried I might be hitting on you? Because don’t! I am kinda done with your sex right now,” I tell him. “Hell, I might try playing for my team,” I add with a wink.

  Brock looks at me, his eyes widening as he shoves his hand through his hair, effectively messing up the perfectly styled locks.

  “I don’t know why I just told you that,” he mutters.

  “It’s okay, I was just kidding. It doesn’t make a difference to me. You’re cute and all, but like I said…not interested,” I say, trying to joke to lighten the mood.

  “I have never told a single soul. If my family finds out…Don’t get me wrong, my family is great. They love me, but my grandparents... Well, they are not very progressive, if you catch my drift? They are very family-oriented and extremely religious; they can never know. My twin brother, Ashton, is already the golden son. If he gets married before I do, he will for sure beat me out for CEO.”

  Brock takes his turn and continues to pour his heart out, and although rationally I know that it is probably the alcohol, I feel as if we have bonded here tonight. Knowing that he isn’t just being nice to me to get inside my pants is also a novelty. I get excited when the next thought pops into my head.

  “What you need, my friend, is a beard.”

  He frowns.

  “What does facial hair have to do with anything?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Brock looks at me expectantly.

  “When a man marries a woman to keep people from finding out he’s gay, that makes her his “beard.” I can’t believe you don’t know that,” I say, shaking my head.

  He sits there for a moment, absorbing this new information.

  “I can help you fund your restaurant, just give me two years.”

  He looks so serious right now, I can’t help but laugh out loud.

  “Why in the world would you fund my restaurant?”

  “Well, if you are to play my wife for two years, you can’t date anyone else. So in addition to keeping you too busy to do so, it seems like perfect payment for your time.”

  “That’s hilarious.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “You’re interested.”

  I stare at him. I can’t believe I am actually considering this. Brock is staring back at me expectantly.

  “We clearly have had way too much to drink, Brock. This idea, however tempting it is, is...it’s...well, it’s crazy.”

  “Crazy enough to work.”

  “You don’t even know me. How do you know that I am not some crazy broad?”

  “Kenzie, I absolutely have zero doubt that you are the craziest broad I’ve ever met, and I love it. Trust me, this will work out for the both of us. What can go wrong? We both get our dream careers, and all it will take is to pretend to be a couple for two years. That will fly by.”

  I frown.

  “I’m not so sure I like you calling me Kenzie.”

  Brock chuckles.

  “That’s the only thing you have issue with? Because I can work on that.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I can’t deny that I am tempted, but I think we need to discuss this when we’re sober and see how we feel after a good night’s sleep.”

  “Fine, but I’ve already made up my mind. I need a wife, and I want her to be you.”

  “How are we going to explain this sudden marriage to our families?”

  “I’m sure between the two of us we can come up with something plausible. Besides, you are beautiful, talented, and smart. Why wouldn’t I want to marry you?”

  I lean forward, making sure to make eye contact.

  “I think I would be perfect for you, were it not for the missing appendage between my legs,” I tell him with a wink.

  “I’ve never had a girlfriend. I mean, I have dated of course, but never more than two dates, so that I wasn’t expected to sleep with them or anything. We can say I have been pining for you and that I locked you down when you finally became available.”

  I can’t help it. That statement elicits a chuckle.

  “What if your family hates me?”

  “They won’t.”

  “What if my family hates you?”

  “Who are you kidding? They won’t,” he replies confidently.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what; we will both go home, have a good night’s sleep, take the entire day—twenty-four hours to make sure we’re sober—and decide if this is something we seriously want to pursue. If we both decide it is, we will meet here for dinner the day after tomorrow. Seven o’clock sharp. Deal?” I ask him, holding out my hand.

  Brock looks at me with a twinkle in his eye and takes the hand I’ve offered him.

  “Deal.”

  The pounding in my head when I opened my eyes a few minutes ago is unforgiving, but admittedly deserved. Realization of my current situation sets in, and although just a second ago I didn’t think I could feel worse, the reminder of having lost everything I have worked for these last three years makes me physically ill. The alarm I have set on my phone starts yelling at me, and as irrational it is, I shoot it an angry look. I groan and struggle to get myself out of bed. I sit on the side of my bed for a moment. Every moment since I walked in here yesterday is a blur.

  Last night, after Amber finally finished her shift and I got to tell her what happened, she berated me for not having gone to the police yet. Honestly, it hadn’t even occurred to me; I’m not even sure why. She is making me go to the police station this morning, and I am pretty sure she is only coming along to make sure I actually do it. She is due here any minute, so I get up, make the bed, and push it back into its place in the wall. The apartment is so small, I have a hideaway bed installed in the wall. I stroll into the kitchenette and get the coffee started before I jump into the shower. Because I am running low on time, I forgo washing my hair this morning, and instead close my eyes as the hot water cascades onto my back, a small, approving moan falling from my lips. The heat is doing wonders for the tightness in my shoulders, and only the promise of the caffeine I so desperately need, is enough to tear myself away from the heavenly stream of water. I walk over to a pile of clothes, pull out a pair of jeans and a shirt, nothing special. I really need to get this stuff picked up, but I guess there will be time for that later today. I still have my towel wrapped around me when I walk into the kitchenette and find my phon
e ringing next to the coffee maker. I am expecting it to be Amber, telling me she is almost here, but when I look at the screen, I see that it’s Paul Manfred. My heart jumps; maybe he’s calling to tell me that he will give me my job back! I eagerly answer the phone.

  “Hello?”

  Paul clears his throat, and I immediately feel uneasy. He usually clears his throat when he gets ready to give you crap news.

  “Hey Mackenzie.”

  Well, crap on a cracker, he just called me Mackenzie instead of toots. This isn’t good…

  “Hey Paul, I’m so glad you called,” I say in an attempt to get him to change his mind.

  He sighs.

  “I’m sorry Mackenzie, but I have thought about it. When you turned in your notice, I hired a replacement. I can hardly go back on my word, and who knows when you will decide to change your mind again? I have a business to run and have to think of that first. No hard feelings, right?”

  I clutch the towel around me as I try to compose myself. For the second time in as many days, tears are burning at my eyelids. Only this time, I manage to keep them tucked inside. I take a deep breath.

  “I understand. Thank you anyway,” I say, taking extra effort to keep my voice even.

  I tell him goodbye and hang up the phone. I stand for a moment, eyes closed, lips firmly pressed together. I inhale and exhale through my nostrils, trying to calm myself. The doorbell rings, and I rush to the intercom and hold down the button. I don’t even have a chance to ask who it is.

  “Open the door. It’s freezing out!” Amber grumbles.

  I press the button to let her up and hurry to find a pair of panties. I put on the bra that is hanging on the bathroom doorknob, idly wondering how it got there. My head starts to pound again, so I give up trying to figure it out. I quickly get dressed, Amber walking into the apartment as I am pull my shirt over my head.

  “Oh good, you made coffee,” is her greeting as she walks over to the coffee pot.

  A small smile tugs at my lips. One of the things we have in common is our need for caffeine to get going in the morning. When I reach the kitchenette, she has already pulled out two mugs and is fixing us some coffee. I gratefully accept the cup she hands me, feeling as though she just handed me liquid gold. No matter how silly it may be to others, I have a ritual for my very first cup of the day. I bring the cup to my nose and inhale its scent. I let the robust aroma of the coffee tickle my nostrils and continue to entice me. Ever so slowly, I bring the mug to my lips. I blow gently before I take some coffee into my mouth and let the hot liquid caress my throat as I swallow my much needed caffeine fix.

  “I needed that,” I tell my friend gratefully.

  She smiles brightly at me.

  “Girl, me too.”

  Amber gives me the once-over, as she always does. She’s maternal like that.

  “Um, are you going to wear a jacket or something? It’s kind of chilly out there today.”

  I roll my eyes dramatically, as if I am really put off. But secretly, I love that she cares about me enough to worry.

  “Yes, mom.”

  She gives me a big smile.

  “Drink up. We have places to go, police officers to see.”

  We finish our coffee, and I fill her in on the phone call she just missed. In response, she sends out a group text to our friends, asking them to keep us posted on catering jobs. Leave it to Amber to be optimistic.

  I put on a light jacket, grab my purse, and we head to the police station. We travel in silence, which is really unheard of when it comes to us. I know that on my side, it’s the shame and knowing that I have to tell strangers my humiliating story. As for her, I’m sure she is trying her hardest not to tell me “I told you so.”

  When we finally get to the police station—and after quite a wait to talk to an officer—I get my second blow for the day. The officer basically informs me that there isn’t much that I can do, as he wears a judgey “Oh, honey” look on his face. That really pissed me off, but I begrudgingly admit that what he is saying makes sense. We were living together, and as far as the money goes, the bank account had his name on it. Legally, there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  “Maybe you can go via the court system,” he tells me.

  I just sit through the whole thing in a daze. My mind is consumed with angry thoughts as I think of all the ways I’d like to throttle my piece of crap ex-boyfriend. I am so consumed with white heat, I don’t even realize the whole thing is over until Amber pulls on my arm. I feel pretty damn defeated when we walk out of that police station. She links her arm through mine as we walk in silence, as last night starts playing in my mind. My interest was piqued, but now—knowing that I have no job, no restaurant, and no hope of getting my money back—why am I not jumping at this chance? Two years certainly isn’t long, and I think we would get along swimmingly. The sound of Amber’s cell phone breaks the silence. She answers her phone, and while I can hear her speak, the words are kind of going over my head. She suddenly plunges her elbow into my side, and I shoot her an exacerbated look.

  “Yeah, no problem. Mackenzie will have absolutely no problem cooking up a meal for seven people. Just email her the deets,” she says before ending the call.

  I frown.

  “Who was that?”

  She smiles widely.

  “That, my dear, was my amazing boyfriend, aka your savior,” she beams. “He has found a sweet catering gig for you. It’s a one-time deal, but it pays well. And it may lead to more stable work.”

  My heart literally does a happy dance inside my chest.

  “Seriously? Oh my God! I could kiss him right now!”

  “You better keep your paws off my man,” she says in her quasi-angry tone.

  I hold my hands up, as if I’m surrendering.

  “Okay, okay. You can do it for me!” I wink.

  “Ugh” she groans loudly. “Oh, the sacrifices I make for you.”

  I adore Amber and her dramatic antics. Once again, she’s come through for me. For the first time in days, I actually feel like I can start putting my life back together.

  The catering job is for a private party in which all I need to do is cook a three-course meal and appetizers for seven people. Piece of cake! The client emailed me a menu, and when I looked it over, I found that it wasn’t very complicated. I have free reign with the appetizers, so of course I decide to make my potato salmon bites; they are one of my signature dishes, after all. I was told to email a list of any ingredients I’d need and was assured they’d be at the address provided. The only request was that I come early, which is why I am checking in with the doorman of the upscale apartment building in Manhattan at noon sharp.

  On the elevator ride up, I check my uniform. It is pristinely white, not a wrinkle in sight. I’m even wearing my chef’s hat; I might as well look as professional as possible. I get off on the eighth floor and make my way to apartment 812 B. I ring the doorbell and am greeted by a disheveled looking—but still obviously attractive—young lady who introduces herself as Faye Baker. I place my purse on the table by the door and follow her through the apartment and into the kitchen. She tells me to take a seat at the breakfast bar and offers me some coffee, which I eagerly accept. We make some small talk, but when I ask her about the party tonight, she smiles at me awkwardly.

  “I am throwing this dinner party tonight to impress my new boss. I have boasted that I am a great cook, but frankly, I should not be allowed anywhere near a kitchen.”

  I chuckle, but she looks at me with slightly widened eyes.

  “No, really. I am not kidding. I am a terrible cook. I can’t even boil water without almost setting the place on fire. I really need to make a good impression.”

  I smile at her gently.

  “You have come to the right woman for the job,” I tell her. “I will whip you up a meal that your boss and guests will talk about for days to come, trust me.”

  She looks somewhat relieved.

  “I tell you what, why
don’t you sit here and watch me cook the meal? That way, you can answer questions if they come up. You can even help me out a little bit by grabbing stuff for me from time to time.”

  She looks at me, a little uncertain, but nods.

  I walk over to the sink to wash my hands and start digging for all the ingredients I need for the main course, knowing that will take the longest to make. It’s actually kind of fun. It feels like I have my very own cooking show as I walk around the kitchen and explain in detail to Faye what I am doing. We talk about this and that, and Faye tells me more about why she is hosting this party for her boss and some prospective clients. Her boss wants a promotion at work, and getting these clients to sign would be a big help toward that, which in turn would be good for her. By the time I start to prep for dessert, I realize time has flown by. It’s been fun for sure, but giving a play-by-play has really slowed me down. I urge Faye to go and start getting ready for her guests while I set the table and clean up the mess. I’ve just put up the last dish when she walks back in, looking nothing like the disheveled mess she was when I walked in earlier today. She is wearing a navy pencil skirt dress that looks as if has been poured on. The simple dress is paired with a dramatic necklace and matching earrings that perfectly complement the ensemble. I wouldn’t have believed it if you had told me this afternoon that her unruly mop of curly hair could be tamed into the gorgeous up-do she walks in with.

  “Wow, you may not be good in a kitchen, but you are a master at this whole primping thing. You look amazing, girl! You will knock ‘em dead,” I say, genuinely impressed.

  She smiles, and I go over the instructions with her. I explain that dessert is in the fridge and that the oven is keeping the main course and the appetizers warm. She just needs to heat the sides.

  “Okay, well I better get—”

  I’m interrupted by the intercom ringing. Faye’s eyes widen a little before flashing over to the clock on the wall. If this is the doorman announcing one or more of her guests, then they are early. She excuses herself and answers. She returns shortly, and the color has drained from her cheeks. I don’t even need to ask.