Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2), page 4
“We’re going shopping,” he said as he pulled away from the curb. “You like shopping?”
If he only knew. “Doesn’t everyone? But I don’t think anything’s open right now.”
Donnie glanced at the clock above the dashboard. “Actually, this place’ll open up in about half an hour.”
“Great,” I said. “I’m going to be like one of those girls on the true crime show, kidnapped by a cute guy and sold into slavery.”
“You think I’m cute?”
I raised my mug, hoping to blame my warm cheeks on the steam. “I’m sure they’ll get a good-looking actor to portray you. Ratings and all.”
“Ratings.” We stopped for a traffic signal, the streetlight above making the interior of the van bright as day. “You’re not wearing a drop of makeup, are you?”
“Um, no.” In fact, this was the most casual I’d been in public in years. My hair was pulled back in a bun, and I was wearing jeans, an orange turtleneck sweater, and a navy blue down vest. And cowboy boots; one must be stylish, even in the cold. “Is that all right? You didn’t say where we were going.”
“It’s fine,” he said, his dark eyes holding me. “I like seeing the real you.” We watched each other for a moment, then the light turned green, and Donnie returned his attention to the road.
“All right, go ahead and ask me,” I said.
“Ask you what?”
“About my eyes.”
Donnie glanced at me, his forehead wrinkled. “What about your eyes? You have x-ray vision or something?”
I blinked. “You’re really not curious?”
“Seriously, babe, you’ve lost me,” he said. “Help a guy out and tell me what I’m supposed to be curious about.”
“Everyone wants to know if they’re green because of contacts, or if I have some crazy white ancestor,” I explained.
“I got lots of crazy white ancestors,” Donnie said. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
I laughed, and watched my reflection in the passenger window. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed that about you.”
“S’okay. Besides, I already know everything I need to about your eyes.”
“And what’s that?”
“That they’re gorgeous.” My jaw dropped, but before I could say anything, he continued, “And anyway, it’s not like the fish’ll care what color they are.”
I shut my mouth with a clack. “Fish?”
“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you? We’re going to the fish market.”
“At one in the morning?”
He shrugged. “It’s when it opens.”
We got to the market, and after Donnie showed his parking tag to an attendant we found a space, parked the van, and entered the market. It was like going to the world’s biggest shopping mall, if all that mall sold was seafood. “I’ve never seen so many dead fish in one place,” I said, then I eyed my companion. “I thought you were the head chef.”
“That I am.”
“You don’t have some kind of minion to buy this stuff for you?” I asked, then added, “And why are you coming all the way to New York for fish? Don’t tell me, Connecticut fish aren’t as tasty?”
“This is the best fish market on the east coast,” Donnie replied. “And the last time I sent a minion, he came back with twelve dozen scallops and one whole trout.”
“Was that bad?”
“Yeah. I sent him for lobster.”
We laughed together, and wandered up and down the endless aisles of fish. Donnie led me through stalls that featured every kind of fish and clam known to man, and a few things that could have been sea monsters. After a while, I asked, “So you come down here every week?”
“Depends on the restaurant,” he replied. “I’d like to, but certain times of year we just don’t sell as much seafood. But with the holidays and all we can use the stock. The prices here more than make up for the travel and gas.”
“And that’s the only reason you came down to the city in the middle of the night?” I pressed.
He looked sidelong at me and gave me this devilish grin that lit me up all over. “Not hardly.”
We strolled up and down the aisles, Donnie browsing the fish much like I shopped for shoes. I observed as Donnie ordered vast amounts of salmon, whole specimens of other types of fish, and so many scallops it was like they’d emptied the ocean. Eventually we reached a man selling sacks of clams and mussels.
“Donnie,” the man greeted. “Bet I know what you’re after.”
“I bet you’d be right,” Donnie said. “Trevor, this is Astrid.”
“Nice to meet you,” Trevor said. “You one of the new cooks?”
“No, Donnie just asked me to come along,” I replied.
“Don, you brought a date to the fish market?” Trevor shook his head. “How did your mama raise you?”
“Hey, no mama bashing,” Donnie said. “You got my order?”
“Yeah, I’ve been setting it aside each week ever since Gabe screwed up,” Trevor replied. “Go show your girl an octopus or something. I’ll have this sent over to the van.”
Donnie nodded, and we walked off down the endless aisles of fish and ice. “Trevor’s right,” I said. “Most guys don’t bring a date to a fish market. Especially not a first date.”
“I thought our first date was at the restaurant,” Donnie said.
“When you asked me to nibble your sausage?” I asked, and he laughed. “That’s really more of a third date kind of question.”
“Okay, so we’ve gotta come here two more times before I bring up sausage again,” Donnie said, and it was my turn to laugh. He stopped and scrutinized some gigantic crab legs splayed out like briny red swords. “Listen, you want to know why I brought you here?”
“Sure.”
“This is who I am. Well, not a fishmonger, but I’m a cook. I’m a regular guy, not some fancy New York dude like you’re used to. I just thought that if you could see the real me, I’d know if you liked me.”
“Why wouldn’t I like the real you?”
“You seemed put off by my sausage.”
I frowned to keep from laughing and swatted his shoulder. “New rule—we do not discuss your sausage in public.”
“Private, then?”
“Maybe.” I slipped my hand against his and squeezed. “Just so you know, the real you’s not bad, and I thought that before the fish.”
Donnie smiled and squeezed back. “Good to know.”
Once Donnie had all the fish he came for, we collected the smaller orders and headed back to the van. I helped him load up the crates and sacks, then he opened the passenger side door for me.
“Hey,” he said.
I paused with one foot in the van. “What?” I asked, turning to face him. Instead of replying he slid his arms around my waist and kissed me.
“This,” he said when we parted. “And this,” he added, kissing me again. I parted my lips beneath his and let him deepen the kiss. Donnie was right; he wasn’t like the guys I met and sometimes dated in the city. He was sweet and kind and genuine, and if he didn’t have a van full of fish and clams on ice, I’d drag him back there and show him how much I really did like him.
When we parted he pressed his forehead against mine, his hands cupping my face while his thumbs traced little circles on my jaw. “So this really is a date?”
“I guess so,” I replied.
He grinned. “Any chance we can do this again?”
“With or without the fish?”
The grin widened. “Whatever you want, babe.”
“Then yes.”
Donnie kissed my nose, then he helped me into the van and went over to his side. Once he was behind the wheel, he grabbed my hand. “C’mon, babe, let’s grab some breakfast.”
***
We had breakfast at a nearby diner that all the fish market people, shoppers and sellers alike, seemed to frequent. Donnie and I claimed a booth in the back and grabbed menus from the napkin stand.
“Is this place good?” I asked.
“Good enough,” he replied. “Hard to screw up eggs, you know?”
A waitress appeared at the end of the table and set down a carafe of coffee and two mugs, then left without saying a word. I made a mental note to not stumble around like a zombie at Al’s. “What if I wanted water?” I mumbled. “Or juice?”
“There’s water in coffee.” Donnie grinned as he poured the coffee. “And we can order juice. Tell me what models eat for breakfast.”
“Whatever’s available, really.” I scanned the menu, not that I’d expected anything beyond standard breakfast fare. “What do chefs eat for breakfast?”
“Honestly? Leftovers.”
We laughed again, and I realized a few things. The first was that this midnight trip to buy seafood was the best first date I’d ever had. The second was that Donnie might just be the nicest guy I’d ever met. And the third was the fact that I wanted to see him again. I wanted it a lot.
In my infinite wisdom I decided to play it cool, and we engaged in nothing more than some casual small talk over breakfast. After Donnie took care of the bill we hopped in the van and he drove me back to my building.
“Here’s my stop,” I said as he pulled up to the curb. “I had a good time.”
“Bet no one ever took you to a fish market at midnight before,” he said.
“You’re right,” I said, then I leaned over and kissed him.
When we parted, he asked, “You never told me, did you roast a turkey yesterday?”
“I wouldn’t subject the poor bird to my cooking,” I replied, leaving out how I’d faked a headache to avoid my family. “How about you?”
“I chilled at home, but I’ll be cooking all day today,” he replied. “We’ve got a holiday brunch at the restaurant. “Turkey, ham, the works.”
“Let me guess, half of this haul is for that.”
A lazy smile, sexy dark eyes at half-mast. “Good guess.”
“Sounds like you have a busy day.” I walked my fingers up his chest and tugged at his collar. “You gonna call me afterward?”
“You know it, babe,” he said, threading his fingers into my hair. “Face it, you’re my girl now.”
“Am I?” I asked, ignoring the little flutters in my heart. “Does that make you my boy?”
“Whatever you want, babe,” he said, then he kissed me again. “Whatever you want.”
Chapter Seven
Donnie
I got to the restaurant a little after six in the morning and unloaded the van. No one else had come in yet, and I liked my alone time in the kitchen, setting everything up just so. It was one of the reasons I liked going to the market myself, so I could come back and organize things while the place was quiet.
Of course, usually I got back from the market around three, which meant that after unloading I still had plenty of time to go home, grab a shower, and a couple hours of sleep. Even though Astrid and I hadn’t lingered too long at the market or over breakfast, I didn’t know if I had a spare hour before the day’s deliveries arrived; extra deliveries, since we had that holiday brunch happening later on. I figured I’d catch a quick nap in Christa’s office, deal with the deliveries, start the meat roasting, and then head home to shower. Not my best plan, but I’ve had worse. Way worse.
Once the seafood was happy in the walk-in cooler, I went to the office and lay down on the couch. As I did I remembered Astrid’s smile, the way she kissed me, and how good her butt had looked in those jeans. Who cares about missing a few hours of sleep when a woman like her is concerned?
***
“Donnie.”
I blinked awake and saw Christa standing over me. “Morning,” I croaked. “Daylight yet?”
“Yeah.” She looked over my rumpled clothes, her gaze lingering on my jaw. Not going home for a shower meant no shaving either. “I’m just going to be blunt here—you look like a homeless person.”
“Hey,” I protested as I sat up.
Christa waved her hand in front of her face. “And you smell like one.” She eyed me for a second, then asked, “Are you hung over or something?”
“No, I am not hung over,” I grumbled. “I went to the fish market last night. I didn’t get back until a couple hours ago and figured I’d grab a nap before setting up for the buffet.”
Christa nodded. “Was the market busy?”
“Nah. Pretty light, actually.”
“Then why so late?”
“Oh, ah.” I stood and rubbed the back of my neck. “Remember Britt Sullivan’s friend, Astrid? I took her with me, then we had breakfast. I kind of lost track of time.”
Christa raised an eyebrow, then she laughed. “All right, Romeo. Why don’t you go home and make yourself presentable?”
“Romeo?” I repeated. “And do I have time for that, what with the brunch and all?”
“We’ll make time,” she replied. “In your present state you’re not fit to touch people’s food. Especially not today, when we’re sold out for brunch.”
“That’s just mean,” I said. “I’ll remember this the next time you pop in after a day of gardening with manure under your fingernails.”
“You do that. Now go.”
“Thanks, boss.” I left the office and headed toward the parking lot, grateful that my boss was Christa. Most wouldn’t be half as understanding.
“Hey, Romeo,” she called after me.
“Yeah?”
“Is she worth it? The lack of sleep, and the unholy stench that comes with it?”
I grinned over my shoulder. “You bet she is.”
***
Less than an hour later a showered, shaved, and much better smelling version of myself was ready to head back to the restaurant. I got in my Jeep and put the key in the ignition, but instead of starting the engine I grabbed my phone. After thumbing through the contacts I found Astrid’s number and hit call.
“Hey,” she yawned into the phone.
“You sleepy?”
“I’m frickin’ exhausted. Some crazy chef kept me out all night,” she replied. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Man, until she started talking I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to hear her voice again. I could spend all day just listening to her. “I called you my girl earlier.”
“I remember.”
“You okay with that?”
“Yeah.” I could hear her smiling. “I am.”
“Good.” I sat there by myself, grinning like a fool. Then I remembered the hundred and twenty reservations for the brunch I was supposed to be cooking. “Listen, I’ve got to get to work. You got anything planned for later?”
“I have a session, but it will be over around four. Text me when you get home?”
“I will, babe.”
“Bye for now.”
She ended the call and I started the engine and drove back to work. I was going to have to get used to not sleeping on Thursday nights.
Chapter Eight
Astrid
After my late night/early morning with Donnie, I grabbed what rest I could in anticipation of my shoot that afternoon. It was supposed to be a low key session, just some outdoor shots in the city for some national department store chain. I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower around nine. When I emerged and checked the missed calls on my phone and saw one from Archer Modeling Agency, I knew without checking my voicemails the session had been cancelled.
“I don’t know why it’s been cancelled,” Mindy’s voice said into the phone. “The client cancelled a different session last week, so maybe they have some internal trouble? I’ll keep you posted.”
I deleted the voice mail and turned my phone off, then I went into my kitchen. After microwaving a mug of tea, I took stock of my cabinets. My dry goods consisted of dried soup, crackers, and granola bars. My fridge contained sliced turkey, orange juice, seltzer, and one of those fancy water filtration pitchers, and the freezer had a couple frozen meals. Since I didn’t know if I wanted to expend the energy to go out and charge groceries on my last remaining bit of open credit, I went back to bed.
Of course, all that quality time with my pillow meant that I was up with the sun on Saturday, the start of the most boring weekend of my life. Britt and Sam were off looking at possible studio locations, Melody was spending time with her family, and Michael had some new boy toy occupying all of his time. I considered going out and doing some window shopping, but staring at designer clothes without being able to purchase them is just depressing. With my luck an enterprising salesperson would convince me to open yet another store credit account, and dig me deeper into debt.
That hole was deep enough, thank you very much.
Since my finances, or lack thereof, had doomed me to spend my weekend in my apartment, I was determined to make the most of it. I organized my closets, moved my spring and summer clothes to the guest bedroom and set up my cool weather items. I put together several outfits, complete with shoes and jewelry. I finished that overhaul by noon on Saturday. Since my apartment was already spotless I couldn’t binge clean, and I lacked both the desire and ingredients to cook, I reread my favorite romance series.
Needless to say when Monday morning arrived I was thrilled to have my first full shift at Al’s. Normally, I would have styled my hair and glammed up my makeup, but I was no fool. I understood that at a place like Al’s you didn’t want to be too attractive. I was also hoping that none of the patrons recognized me from my real career. The last thing I needed were fans talking about my new job. What if that talk got back to my agency? I would die before I let John know how much these cancellations had hurt me.
I arrived at Al’s with my hair up in a high ponytail, no makeup, and wearing a blue sweater, jeans, and running shoes. Al took one look at me, asked if I always dressed like the Queen of England, and jerked his head toward a tall skinny redhead.
“I’m Padraic,” the redhead said, “Al’s son. I take it you’re Astrid, our new waitress.”
