Iced Romance Read online

  Um, it means that I’m a total skank, but I’m not going to go there. I shrug and step to one side so a customer can get by. “What?”

  “It means that on our next day off, I’m taking you shopping! A date equals new clothes! You’re new around here. You probably haven’t been to the Target here in town, right?”

  I shake my head no. “I don’t think I’ve even stepped into a Target in my entire life, to be honest.”

  Leila smacks my arm and then picks up her notebook and pen from a nearby table. “Who are you? It’s like you really are Paris Hilton. Anyway, no worries. You come with me; we’ll get you a fun outfit and it’ll be amazing.”

  I find myself agreeing and even while I do, I realize I’m excited. A date, a shopping buddy. Maybe I really can get over Todd. Maybe he really can become nothing to me.

  A man and woman walk in the door just then and I wave at them, turning away from Leila to welcome them.

  What a great day this is turning out to be.

  And I just can’t stop smiling.

  Chapter Twelve

  It is a few hours later and it seems to me as though the shift will never end. My back is aching, my shoes are killing me, and the only person who left a reasonable tip was an old woman who looked homeless. Somehow that made it even worse.

  I carry a tray of dirty dishes toward the kitchen and push open the door. The kitchen is hot, everything smells greasy and humid, and I gag. The sooner I can go home, the sooner I can call that number burning a hole in my pocket and the sooner I talk to David, the sooner I’ll be able to relax and—

  “Newbie, I think you’re off at six tonight, right?”

  Startled, I look around. Leila is picking up a couple plates of food from the counter and heading toward the door with them.

  I nod and place my dishes in the sink. “Yes, thank goodness.”

  “Cool, well it’s six. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I tell her good night and watch as she pushes the door open with her hip, balancing the plates on her hands and disappears.

  I glance over at Gary. “See you tomorrow.”

  Gary grunts and pulls some French fries out of the deep fryer. I take that as a goodbye. I exit the restaurant through the alley.

  It’s still light out and downtown Kissimmee is alive with people. There are some dressed to impress, climbing out of fancy Mercedes and heading toward the King’s Club, a restaurant that, according to Leila, only the rich and fabulous can afford. There are also clumps of teenagers hanging out across from the convenience store on the corner, two women walking small poodle-looking dogs and gossiping to each other. Everyone looks tanned, happy, and fit.

  Florida is such a bizarre place.

  I take my shoes off and walk the ten minutes to my apartment in bare feet. I know, that’s disgusting, but there is no way I could walk home with these shoes on. Besides, if I haven’t gotten an incurable disease from working at Maxie’s yet, I doubt I’ll get it from the sidewalk.

  I arrive home and barely shut the door when I feel an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. I’ve never worked as hard as I have this past week. I throw my shoes into the corner and collapse onto the couch. I need a minute before I can muster the energy to pick up my phone. After a minute, I spot the Kissimmee Tribune lying on the floor where I had tossed it after finding it on my front step this morning. I haven’t read a newspaper in a while, so I flip it open.

  The headlines are all the same; boring and uninteresting. “CEO of Media Empire Charged with Fraud!” screams one, while another claims that “New Study Proves That Chocolate Prevents Cancer!” I turn to the entertainment and sports sections, hoping something there will be more appealing. I wonder if the drama with Todd has finally died away. It’s been over two weeks since everything blew up. Maybe with nothing to stoke the fire, things are going to just calm right down.

  I lick my finger, turn the page, and my mouth falls open in dismay. “Marusiak Named MVP and Athlete of the Year.” What? He’s becoming an MVP and Athlete of the Year? Seriously? What is wrong with America? Can’t they see what a dirty scumbag of rotting filth he is?

  I scan the article.

  Todd Marusiak of the Colorado Avalanche has just been named Athlete of the Year in a shocking move. Just two weeks ago multiple women came forward to admit to having had affairs with the multi-billionaire hockey player, despite him being engaged. While the world mourned alongside the “jilted fiancée,” Marusiak was silent and did not issue a statement regarding his infidelities. However, now with the titles of MVP and Athlete of the Year, Marusiak’s manager finally is speaking out on his behalf. “Todd, while deeply regretting the hurt he has caused Kennedy [his fiancée], is pleased to see that America can overlook his personal life and award him with the honors in his professional life that he clearly deserves.”

  The article goes on, outlining Todd’s many philanthropic charities and causes. I haven’t heard of any of them, and I’m fairly sure that they are all new, probably begun this past week as soon as his manager caught wind of him getting those new honors.

  Talk about damage control. It’s like Angelina Jolie. Sure, America hated her when she stole Jennifer Aniston’s husband, but then she started adopting babies and doing the humanitarian charity thing and now she can do no wrong.

  I want to scream. Todd can’t become the next Angelina. He just can’t!

  I may actually vomit. The newspaper shakes violently in my hands and I stare at it, my eyes seeing the black and white on paper but unable to process any more of it. Each word is a little black dagger in my heart.

  My mind is spinning out of control. I wanted to ruin him. To run away and make him depressed and bitter and finally get him to see how much he hurt me by his affairs. But this? Really? Todd cheats and yet all he gets is praise and love?

  I walk into my bedroom and take off my waitress uniform. Then I reach into my suitcase and try to find something fluffy and comforting to put on. My fingers come across a handful of . . . something a little stiffer. I pull my hand out and stare at the pieces I am clasping with white knuckles. It’s the jersey again.

  The jersey. The one way I can get back at him. The one way I can make him feel a semblance of my pain.

  I grab a second handful of the pieces and rummage through them until I find a nice, big piece with part of Ovechkin’s autograph. I throw on a pair of shorts and a tank top and race out the door, clutching the jersey piece and my wallet in my hands. I make my way to the post office down the street from the consignment thrift store and dash in.

  “Please don’t be closed,” I huff, throwing out my hands and clinging to the counter. The postal worker raises an eyebrow and checks the digital watch on her wrist. “No, we’re open for another hour.”

  “Thank God. Okay, I need an envelope and some stamps. Preferably a self-sealing envelope.”

  I know if Todd wanted to find me he could. I’m not stupid. I used my debit card to buy the plane ticket, and I saw a documentary once about how you can trace people’s location with their emails and stuff. But regardless, I still feel like I shouldn’t leave my DNA all over the envelope when sending him this explosive little package. Call me crazy, but still . . .

  Within a few minutes I have placed the shredded fabric inside the envelope, asked the mail woman to neatly address the envelope and send it on its way.

  Walking back to my apartment, I feel as though a burden has just lifted off of me. I can’t wait to see Todd’s expression in a few days when he opens that and sees his most treasured possession in shreds.

  When I am finally back home, I toss the newspaper in the trash and collapse on the couch. Done. Empty.

  I feel so empty.

  I miss Todd.

  Unbidden tears rise in my eyes and I wipe at them, feeling my nails scratch my cheeks. I don’t want to miss Todd. I want to hurt him.
I want to be done with him. I want to move on.

  Move on.

  David.

  Suddenly I remember that I’m supposed to call him. The date! That will make me feel better, right? That will get me to forget about Todd. I leap to my feet, feeling a sudden increase of energy, and race into my bedroom. I kneel on the floor beside my discarded uniform and rummage through the slightly sticky pockets until I find the scrap of paper with David’s number on it. I grab my cell phone, and punch in the number.

  It rings once. Come on, David, pick up.

  Rings again.

  Just before the third ring I hear him. “Hello?”

  I sit down on the couch, pulling my feet up and leaning into the cushions. “Hi, David? This is Kennedy.” I should probably clarify that I’m the girl from the restaurant, but before I can do so, David has already begun speaking.

  “Kennedy, hi! I’m so glad you called. I was just sitting here thinking what an idiot I was today and hoping you’d at least call to give me a chance to apologize for how out of the blue I was.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. I find I’m smiling again and feel idiotic doing so. “So, I got myself a phone today.”

  “I can see that. Congratulations on joining the twenty-first century.”

  I laugh and examine my fingernails. I really need to get a refresher manicure. “I had to trade in my horse and buggy, but I figure it was worth it.”

  “Well done.” David’s voice sounds pleased. It’s warm and kind and after the stress of dealing with more Todd news just now, David is like a refuge. “So, since you called me, I’m guessing you’re still okay with going on a date with me?”

  “Ha, you’d think so. Maybe I’m calling to tell you to stop being a stalker and to leave me alone,” I reply. I close my eyes and feel a weight lift off my chest as I talk. My words are light and airy, as though I haven’t a care in the world. Maybe this will be good for me. Flirting is a form of therapy, right?

  David is talking again. “A stalker, hmmm, I see. Well, if that’s the case, I recommend that you call the cops and report me. However, just for the record, I am a policeman. So, to save you having to hang up and dial a different number, you could just report your stalker to me.”

  “You’re a policeman?” Somehow it fits. His scar, the chiseled jaw and brilliant eyes.

  “Detective, actually, but I was a patrolman back in the day.”

  “That is so cool.” I’ve always had a thing for men in uniform.

  David laughs. “Thanks. I knew kids in elementary school loved policemen, but I hadn’t realized that waitresses did too.”

  He’s teasing me, I realize, and the thought warms me even more.

  “Yeah, it’s the whole fast car, siren thing. And because every girl in America is in love with those cops on Rookie Blue.”

  “I get that all the time.” I can picture him as he says it, probably rolling his eyes slightly, a bit of a self-deprecating grin on his face. I’ve only met him twice, but somehow it’s like I know him.

  We chat for a few more minutes about work today and how I like Florida. Then, after a tiny pause, David says, “So, about this date.”

  My heart begins racing and I sit up, pulling my knees in and resting my chin on them. “Yeah?” I try to sound casual, but my voice squeaks, betraying my excitement.

  “I was thinking I’d take you to Gatorland. It’s the perfect place for a Denver-native, and I know you’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “Gatorland? That was the first thing I saw in the Kissimmee pamphlet. This is like fate! It’s the reason I moved here!” I am pretty stoked.

  “The pamphlet?”

  “When I was in the airport on my way here, a man at the information desk gave me a pamphlet on Kissimmee and told me to live here. I saw Gatorland and was convinced.”

  I suddenly realize that I’m talking too fast; my voice is too high. And I can’t believe I used the word ‘fate’. I don’t want him to think I’m one of those clingy girls who goes on a first date and then immediately starts planning a wedding. I clear my throat and add, “Although I, of course, had other reasons for moving here too. Gatorland just seemed okay.”

  “Ha,” David chuckles. He sounds amused. “Well, Gatorland is more than just okay. I think your original assessment was right, but I’ll let you decide for yourself. When is your next day off?”

  I’d checked with Max earlier today, after David first asked me out, so I don’t even hesitate. “Friday I’m not working. And Saturday I’m on the early shift, so I have the evening free.”

  “Perfect. See, the good thing about working for the police force is I’m on shift work too. Thursday and Friday are my two days off this week, so let’s go ahead and plan for Friday then.”

  He can’t hide the pleasure in his voice either. I give him my phone number and tell him my address and we hang up.

  I jump up and run around my apartment, into the bedroom, onto the bed, back into the living room. I need to tell someone! I need to!

  I slow down and pace back and forth a minute. Too bad I have no one to tell. I don’t know Leila’s phone number, but at least I can tell her tomorrow at work. Oh, and now that I have a time for my date with David, maybe we can go shopping tomorrow night after work. It’s going to be great.

  A long shower later, I am lying in bed, replaying our conversation over and over again in my head. And I don’t even notice until I am on the verge of sleep that for the first time in a while I’m not thinking about Todd at all.

  Just David.

  Fade to nothing.

  1 Unread Message!

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Kennedy? Where in the world are U?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?? I got home on Saturday, expecting a party and instead U were gone. What the deuce, where did U go? Then I figured U were probably pouting a bit, but it’s already Wednesday and you’re still MIA. I know UR mad, but U got to realize that I didn’t mean to hurt U babe. S*&% happens and U gotta move on. Plus I am the new MVP for the NHL and U aren’t even here to party. U better get back here soon. Later, T-dawg

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Kennedy! You’re finally coming!”

  I check my watch and smile at the little boy as I lock my front door and walk three steps to Carlos and Jesica’s apartment. Carlos is peering out the open window, his fingers spread on the screen. He’s obviously been watching for me.

  “I’m not late, am I?” I ask Jesica a moment later as she opens the door for me. I had hurried home from work today so I could be ready for dinner with my neighbors. I thought I was right on time, but . . .

  “No, not late at all,” she smiles. “Little boys get so excited though.” She ruffles Carlos’ hair as she bustles back to the kitchen.

  I step into the cool apartment and take in the furnishings. The apartment is the same style as mine except it feels totally different. The room is painted in shades of orange and yellow, there are some potted plants in the window, and small paintings line the wall. They are of ducks and mountains and open fields.

  “I like your pictures,” I say, motioning toward them. Jesica grins at me as she chops something on the counter.

  “Thank you. I paint them.” The heavy smell of onions fills the room as she continues dicing, her hands moving rapidly with the knife.

  “You did that?” I can’t help but be impressed. They’re not on par with Monet or Da Vinci, but they definitely had a lot of time and talent poured into them.

  Jesica’s face is a bit flushed as she drops the onions into a pot. “I not very good, but it is, how do you say, my relief? Makes me relax after work.”

  I can understand that. “What do you do for work?” I realize that I know very little about Jesica and her son. How does she support herself? Is she a single m
om? What happened to Carlos’ dad?

  “I am a maid, clean houses in Orlando.” She winks at me. “This is why Carlos never sees me wear big shoes.”

  “Wow.” I am momentarily speechless. And here I thought that waitressing was hard. Being a cleaning lady must be even worse.

  We continue making small talk while the big pot of Spanish rice bubbles on the stove. It smells delicious, all oniony and spicy. Jesica comes and sits down in the living room with me while Carlos runs in and out of the bedroom, showing me his rock collection, some leaves he’s found, and his favorite X-men toys.

  While Carlos dashes around, Jesica tells me more about herself. She was born in Puerto Rico, the middle child of five. Her parents still live there, but when she turned eighteen she wanted to get out. So she packed up and moved to Florida, found a job as a maid, and has been here ever since.

  “What happened to Carlos’ father?” I ask. I’ve been curious, but hoped she’d bring it up so I wouldn’t have to pry. Jesica stands abruptly and my stomach drops. Did I just offend her? Darn it all, I shouldn’t have asked something so personal!

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to pry,” I begin, but Jesica shushes me. “The rice is finish,” she states, twinkling a smile at me. Her hips swing a little as she steps back into the kitchen and returns a moment later with the pot. She places it in the center of a small, metal table, and beckons for me to join her. Carlos dashes past me and slides into his chair with his chin barely showing over the top of the table.

  I sit and Jesica dishes up our plates. The rice is steaming hot, with bits of vegetables and tomatoes mixed throughout. I blow on a spoonful and take a bite. “This is delicious!”

  “It very simple, nothing fancy,” Jesica says, almost as if she is embarrassed by the humble fare. She waves off any more compliments and then says, looking at her son, “You ask about my husband. I marry him when I was nineteen. He was from Mexico, very good looking. I thought we’d be together forever, you know. But, as soon as Carlos is born, my husband not able to take it. He want the single life, not want to look after family, so he left. Last I hear, he is back in Mexico City, probably married again by now.”