Twice Upon a Blue Moon Page 6

  Hazel stepped into the cacophony of the diner, trying not to feel like she’d just agreed to leap out of a plane without a parachute.

  * * * *

  That forgotten bastion of quintessentially Midwestern values that was Dunby, Missouri had only ever had one diner and one bar for as long as Hazel remembered. Kids went to the former with their parents until they were old enough to sneak into the latter with their friends.

  A town of barely two hundred souls had little concept of price range or competition. If the old ranchers turned wealthy paragons of the community wanted to feast, they either crossed the Mississippi and drove to Dyersburg or Union City, or stayed in their sprawling mansions and reveled in home-cooked meals prepared by their live-in staff. The poor had a similar choice, albeit between soup kitchens in the greater townships or canned soup at home.

  The same rules didn’t apply to places like LA. Hazel was never more aware of this than when she stood outside a restaurant clearly above her pay grade, with a man who was clearly out of her league. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She felt ill at ease in her too-tight black dress, the girdle underneath cutting her airflow even as her heart pumped faster, trying to keep pace with her racing thoughts.

  Dylan pressed a hand to the small of her back. “Shall we?”

  The doors slid open as if he’d whispered ‘Open Sesame’. The distinct absence of muzak struck Hazel first then the white-clad maître d’, who smiled at Dylan like an old friend. She watched them shake hands, but whatever words they exchanged flew right over her head. She was too preoccupied with taking in the chandeliers casting warm yellow beams onto wood paneled walls and white tablecloths alike.

  In a pinch, she might have called it industrial espionage, though it would take a serious windfall for Marco’s to become even a pale shadow of this place.

  And if it did, Marco’s first managerial decision would probably be to replace the likes of her with proper wait staff.

  The tables were arranged in a horseshoe, three rows converging around a dance floor where couples of all ages were waltzing discreetly to the warble of a live band. The parallels to Buddy’s wedding were so strong that Hazel nearly started combing the crowd for signs of the bride and groom.

  The maître d’ led them through the restaurant like wayward pups.

  Hazel kept her arm linked through Dylan’s and an eye out for a single man at a table set for three. Her pulse throbbed frantically between her ears. She wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t pass out before the fateful meeting. That would be very, very dumb. You’re a grown woman. This guy doesn’t mean anything to you.

  The problem—she was beginning to see—was that she wasn’t as indifferent to Dylan as she might have liked. Passing muster with his friends mattered.

  “Mr. Parrish?” The maître d’ bent discreetly over a black-clad shoulder. “Your party is here.”

  Hazel had anticipated an older man—some sort of white-haired sugar daddy who drove a BMW and dictated whom Dylan could see in his private time. It was a bit of a stretch sure, since nothing about Dylan suggested he needed a benefactor, but Hazel couldn’t wrap her mind around it otherwise.

  She gawped as Parrish startled to his feet. He couldn’t have been older than Dylan. He stood maybe an inch shorter—though that might have been a consequence of his slouching—and wore his blond hair in riotous, short-sheared curls. Like Dylan, he knew how to fill a suit—and the resemblance didn’t end there. He had the same knowing eyes, the same penetrating stare. His dimples were like parentheses denting his improbably sharp cheeks when he grinned.

  But where Dylan was gorgeous and magnetic like a dazzling sun, Parrish put Hazel in mind of Old Testament fables and a jealous God. She found herself staring at his perfect mouth with all its straight, white teeth. She imagined she could see old blood and sinew caught in the gaps around his canines.

  “Dylan! Ah, and this must be Hazel.” He held out a broad, white palm. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Well, that’s good… Me, I’ve heard nothing about you, Mr. Parrish,” Hazel shot back, pumping his fingers in a sure grip. You don’t scare me.

  The arch reply only broadened his smile. “Ward, please. We’ll have to see about remedying that oversight, won’t we?” He released her hand without preamble.

  Dylan pulled up a chair for her on Ward’s right. She sat down carefully, hoping against hope that the fraying seams of the dress would last out the night.

  “So what’s good here?” Hazel quipped. “I’m guessing it’s not your first time.”

  “We don’t have many of those left,” Ward countered. He alone didn’t pick up his menu. “I recommend the fennel soup, perhaps followed by the roasted sole. And a waltz, of course. Do you dance, Hazel?”

  “Not if it involves choreography.”

  “Ah, but with a firm hand to lead you, there should be no need.”

  Hazel slanted a glance across the table at Dylan. How much did Ward know about her, exactly? “I’m not really interested in being led by anyone, but thanks. I think I’ll have the salmon.” She folded the menu shut. “And I’ll skip the wine.”

  Dylan sucked the corners of his lips in. “So will I.”

  “You’re joking,” Ward scoffed. He had a faint accent, not British but not American, either. “You’re not joking?” He frowned. “Well, this is a sad day. I’m glad I didn’t order champagne.”

  He flagged down the nearest waiter. “Change of plans. Forget the wine. Bring me a Scotch instead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ward had such ease with barking orders that Hazel was willing to bet money he was an only child—a pampered only child, at that. This was what spoiled little tyrants grew up to become. It didn’t explain why Dylan smiled so fondly in his direction whenever Ward was focused on something else.

  Stockholm Syndrome is a thing.

  It struck her suddenly that if she’d seen them together from the first, she wouldn’t have given Dylan the time of day for all the free dinners in the world.

  “It seems I owe you an apology,” Ward announced out of the blue, training his arresting gaze on Hazel. A pair of lasers would’ve unsettled her less. “Dylan explained what happened last night. Had I known, I would’ve stayed another night in San Diego.”

  “I didn’t want to put you out of your home…”

  He waved a hand, dismissing the apology. “You wouldn’t have. There are two levels to the loft, and the walls have been decently soundproofed.” Ward smiled when the waiter deposited his Scotch on the table. He tapped a finger to the edge of the tumbler, looking like a man who enjoyed drinking but knew that he needed to pace himself.

  This one’s the control freak. Which meant Dylan was what? The sidekick? The enabler?

  The accomplice?

  Hazel buried her apprehension deep. She had watched enough TV to know that pairs of serial killers were rare. More than that, she wanted to believe Dylan was a good egg. Why else would he have encouraged her to send Sadie a text when they got to the restaurant?

  That indefatigable voice at the back of her mind whispered that he was obviously trying to make Sadie jealous. That it was her he wanted all along. But he wasn’t introducing Sadie to his friends. He wasn’t mouthing ‘sorry’ at her as Ward launched into a convoluted tale about the loft’s history as a shoe polish manufacturer’s and a speakeasy before it came into their possession.

  Hazel pretended to listen, but she couldn’t shake the suspicion that Ward was pulling double duty, at once playing master of ceremonies and observer.

  She was relieved when the moment came to order.

  “So, Mr. Parrish,” she said in the ensuing lull, “what is it you do?”

  “Ward,” he corrected with a flinty sneer. “Have you heard of Apex Engineering?”

  The name rang faintly in her memory. “Weren’t they the guys who took all that government money only for the CEO to go down on tax evasion charges?” She followed the news, but only because Marco liked to h
ave the radio on in the kitchen. He despised the music he inflicted on his patrons.

  Ward smiled thinly. “The CEO was my father.”

  “Oh.” Insert foot in mouth.

  “I inherited the mess when he went to prison.”

  “So you’re a CEO.”

  “At the ripe age of thirty-three,” Ward confirmed, raising his whiskey glass. “Feel free to let your astonishment show. I hear some variation of ‘you’re much too young for the job’ every other day of the week. This one,” he added, jerking his head toward Dylan, “keeps telling me to sell and wash my hands of the whole putrid business.”

  Dylan arched his eyebrows and sighed. “You ask my opinion.”

  “I keep hoping it’ll change.”

  “You always were an optimist.”

  The look they shared was at odds with their body language. Hazel couldn’t help but think of feral beasts that hunt together, then lick each other’s fur clean of the blood spatter. I guess that makes me prey… It wasn’t the most flattering mental image.

  “Can’t be easy,” she mused, “feeling like everyone’s ganging up against you.” Whether or not it was the case was another story, but paranoia was popular among the powerful even when their parents weren’t indicted felons.

  “Not everyone,” Ward scoffed.

  He didn’t need to smile at Dylan for Hazel to understand that she was the third wheel to their homoerotic love-fest. She wanted to feel affronted, but it wasn’t as if Dylan hadn’t told her that his relationship with Ward was complex. He’d done his best to prepare her. As late as the drive to the restaurant, he’d told her repeatedly that he could call Ward and cancel. His gaze was wary even now, as if he expected his eccentric friend to lash out. Like he thought Hazel might react badly to the company.

  “Must be hard knowing who to trust,” she added, fingering the stem of her water glass.

  “It is,” Ward agreed. “That’s why I keep Dylan around.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  Ward smirked, sharklike, behind his tumbler. “Spoken like a true English major.”

  Icy fingers cast down Hazel’s spine. She fought not to flinch. “You looked me up.”

  “Just keeping an eye out for my friend’s wellbeing. That’s all.”

  “Ward—”

  A raised finger curbed Dylan’s objection. Ward wasn’t finished. “It’s nothing personal. Dylan so rarely gets attached that when it happens, I’m extremely wary of anyone who might be trying to use him. Don’t worry, I didn’t hire private detectives to follow you around. I Googled.”

  Hazel would’ve preferred the private dicks. There was only so much they could dig up from her daily routine. For a twenty-six-year-old in a city with a decent nightlife, she led an exceptionally boring existence. Six years ago would have been a whole other matter. And those pictures were still cached somewhere. They certainly popped up a lot.

  If not the pics, then the video. Christ…

  She leaned forward, twisting to face Ward head on. “And what’s your conclusion? Am I using your friend? I mean he washed my dishes last night, so that’s like…a step below stealing his credit card and going crazy at Nordstrom, right?” Her voice shook. She couldn’t help it.

  Ward still wore that infuriating smile—the same one that made her want to punch his teeth in. Not, on reflection, a good way to endear Dylan to her.

  “Just as long as you don’t actually let him cook. He once tried to boil water in the dorm kitchen and nearly burned the building down around us.”

  “In my defense,” said Dylan, “I was high.”

  “You put a plastic bottle in the microwave.”

  “It was a very old microwave!”

  “Yet it survived twenty-five years of idiot boys… Until you.” Ward shook his head, but his expression was fond when he turned to Hazel. “He has other uses around the house. For instance, he’s wonderful with pets or small children. And he can reach high shelves. If you have any curtains that need putting up, he’s your man.”

  “Are you trying to sell him?” Hazel quirked her eyebrows, feigning ignorance. I know what you’re up to played like a mantra between her ears. It hadn’t escaped her that Ward hadn’t answered the question.

  He knows. He knows and he’s saving it to lord over you if you get too serious about Dylan. It was a sobering thought.

  “More like rent me out,” Dylan muttered under his breath, oblivious. “I’m not a piece of meat, you know. I have feelings.”

  Ward rolled his eyes. “So says the man who spends his days tallying other people’s money.”

  “Ah, what better way to skim from the top? But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

  Ward pressed a hand to his chest. “And my heart goes crack.”

  “What heart?” Dylan pouted.

  The frantic thump of Hazel’s pulse began to beat at a steadier cadence. Dylan and Ward seemed content ribbing each other. After initial hostilities had been exchanged, Ward left off trying to threaten her into playing nice.

  The first course was brought out—fennel soup, as per Ward’s recommendation—while he regaled them with tales of his baboon board members.

  He was one of those men who enjoy the sound of their own voice. He did it so faithfully that he barely seemed to taste the soup. Hazel thought about suggesting they swap plates because the velvety cream was sort of addictive, but she refrained.

  Her dress was tight enough already.

  The main course dashed her hopes of slaking her hunger on anything more consistent. Two medallions of salmon and a thin strip of black rice did not a supper make.

  “Should have had the sole,” Ward said when the waiter came to retrieve their plates.

  “Free will is a beautiful thing,” Dylan countered. “And on that note.” He flashed Hazel a smile. “If I promise to let you lead, would you do me the honor of this dance?”

  “I don’t want to say that you sound like a time traveler from the eighteen hundreds, but…” Ward held up his hands when Hazel glowered.

  Perhaps it would’ve annoyed him to be thwarted yet again. Perhaps he wouldn’t have cared. Either way, Hazel slid her chair back and stood. “Let’s go, Mr. Darcy.”

  Dylan followed her onto the dance floor as the in-house pianist started on the first notes of Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable.

  Yep, definitely feels like Buddy’s wedding.

  She banished the pang of guilt she felt at the thought of Rhonda and the baby shower. After her mother’s call, Hazel had wound up declining the invite on Facebook, in the most impersonal way she could possibly have replied.

  Thanksgiving would be interesting this year.

  “I’m sorry he’s so difficult,” Dylan whispered in her ear as he pulled her close. “If you want to leave…”

  Hazel wrapped an arm around his shoulders and let Dylan fold his hand around her wrist. “Already? But I’m having such fun.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Ward had ‘life of the party’ practically stamped on his forehead. He wasn’t likable, but he was entertaining. Hazel had no desire to capitulate just because he’d annoyed her a bit. “You’ve known him for a long time, haven’t you?”

  Dylan hummed a note of acquiescence, the sound bubbling out from deep within his chest.

  “We met in freshman year. That’s… God, is that really twelve years ago?” He shook his head, brushing her temple with his lips. “He’s a good guy. A little standoffish, but a good guy.”

  If you say so. It wasn’t Dylan’s past that Ward had gone digging into.

  “And will he be a good guy at the loft tonight, or… Is he going back to San Diego, by any chance?”

  She felt Dylan’s smile more than saw it. “I think he’s headed back.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Yeah?” Dylan spun her under his arm. “You have designs on my virtue, do you?”

  Hazel shook her head. “It’ll all be very spontaneous. Not like I spent all day thinki
ng about it—or you.”

  “Oh, really?” Dylan tipped forward, close enough to press a delicate, chaste kiss to the hinge of her jaw. “That makes two of us.”

  “How narcissistic.”

  His chuckle gusted against her cheek, rippling like a caress across her skin. She wanted nothing more than to kiss him as he pulled back, but Dylan didn’t stop at a few inches. When he turned, Hazel glimpsed Ward over his shoulder.

  “May I cut in?”

  Dylan hesitated, wary puzzlement on his handsome face.

  “Sure,” said Hazel. There was no other polite answer she could give. Ward would be offended if she refused and, hands down, he’d win Dylan in the custody battle. He’d known him longer.

  Appropriately, the house band transitioned into the eponymous Habanera as Ward offered his hand. She took it. “I don’t tango.”

  “Neither do I,” Ward replied. “But if I were to learn with someone, I could do worse.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That I’m a fan of your work.”

  Couples of all ages swayed and twirled around them, some more skillfully than others. Hazel remained mostly stationary. At least it’s a short piece. Even on an empty stomach, she still would’ve felt a little sick standing there, like a rabbit who’d misguidedly ventured into the foxhole.

  “You don’t like me very much,” Ward noted when she didn’t respond.

  “I don’t know you.” The not so civilized variant? I think you’re a manipulative Ritchie Rich. Whatever hold you’ve got over Dylan, it won’t work with me. Hazel swallowed it back, because it wasn’t true, not a bit. She’d run from men with far fewer resources at their disposal than Ward Parrish and she was still looking over her shoulder. “I don’t even know where you’re from.”

  “Pretoria.”

  “South Africa?” Hazel smiled thinly. “Huh. Of course, you don’t need to ask the same question. Google already told you.”

  Ward hummed a note of acquiescence, his palm warm on the small of her back. “Google told me many things. For instance, turns out there’s some interesting material of you on certain websites…”

  Hazel’s feet became rooted to the floor. Her blood congealed in her veins. “What do you want?”