The Palms
Authors: S Celi
By
The Palms
Copyright © 2013 by S. Celi
Book cover design copyright © 2013 Letitia Hasser at
RBA Designs
Published by Lowe Interactive Media, LLC
First edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
1. Fiction/ Romance 2. Short stories
Published in the United States of America
Discover other titles by S. Celi at
Amazon
Table of Contents
December 6th, 2012
8:00 PM, The Breakers Hotel
auren Crawford slid into one of the new seats at the HMF bar at The Breakers Hotel and threw her purse down on the seat next to her. Thursday night in Palm Beach. Early December. The first night of a much-needed vacation. The tension in her shoulders faded as her breath steadied. Ever since she boarded the plane in Cincinnati, she had thought about ordering a cocktail here.
Within seconds, the bartender strode over to her. “Can I… no, .
may I
, get you anything, Miss?” he asked as he placed cocktail napkins and a small white dish of salted and sweet cashew nuts in front of her. “Welcome to HMF.”
She raised a sculpted black eyebrow as she glanced at the bartender. “Thanks.”
“Do you know what you’d like to order? We have a new drink list.”
“Nice place.” The bar occupied the center of the long room, opening up on one side to a long marble corridor that overlooked the blooming courtyard of the resort. She looked around the bar at the crowd — a mixed bunch of Palm Beach regulars and hotel guests. She didn’t recognize anyone. The resort must have hired new staff to go right along with this reboot of their bar. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Jason.”
“Jason the bartender.”
“The one and only.”
Lauren looked him over. “This place just opened, right?”
“Last week,” Jason said, reaching for a long red drink menu. “Well, the renovation just finished a couple of weeks ago.”
“Well, the bar looks great,” Lauren replied, remembering the Breakers Hotel bar she knew as a kid — a quieter place with comfortable seating that her dad frequented to order Old Fashioneds and escape the family. The new HMF was awash in tropical blue upholstery, a bright checked carpet, gold leaf, and vintage details worthy of the 1960s. Even the staff created the atmosphere — women dressed in black dresses and pearls, and the men in crisp white shirts and black ties.
People didn’t come here just to drink any more. They came here to be seen.
“So far the response has been good. And, we’ve got about a dozen or so new cocktails on the menu, Miss.”
Jason grinned and showed off a chiseled jaw she would have fallen hard for ten years ago. Now — not a chance. Ten years can be a long time. For Lauren, it had been a long time with the wrong men. Instead, she let herself admire his bright blue eyes and his tan. He handed her the menu, but she didn’t open it.
“What do you recommend?” she replied after a moment, adding her signature broad smile. Inside, she thanked herself that she’d put on the red MAC lipstick before she left her family’s condominium at Palm Beach Biltmore.
Jason stepped back and sized her up. “For you? I’d say The Redhead. You look like the type.”
“But I don’t have red hair. I have black hair.” Black hair that she prided herself on, no less.
“Doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy a sassy drink.” Jason picked up a glass from the bar in front of him as if he had already made up his mind to make it for her. “A little vodka, some blood orange liquor, cranberry juice, and lime foam. I think it’s the one for you.”
“Okay. Done. The Redhead it is.” Lauren made sure to pause before she said the name of the drink. Then she added another wide smile. Years with bad men had taught her plenty about how to be a flirt — she knew how to laugh, smile, and make observations that could charm anyone. And, without being arrogant, Lauren knew she had the type of body that made men take second glances.
Jason turned away to start the order, and she turned her attention back to people watching. All around the room, Lauren saw a smattering of rich Palm Beach men, women trying to hide their age, trust fund children, and European tourists. In fact, people had taken every seat in the bar. As she watched, it occurred to her how comfortable, how usual, how normal for this town the whole scene looked. Rich, beautiful people lounged in white leather chairs and laughed at private jokes. They ate expensive miniature pizzas topped with figs off of tiny plates and drank endless glasses of craft beer and French wine. Every one of them wore the casual indifference that comes from regular vacations to exotic locations. She might not have visited the island in eight years — not since college — but some things about Palm Beach never changed.
Ever.
After a few minutes, Jason placed her drink in front of her with a smile, and she took a sip. “I like it,” she told him as the alcohol slid down her throat. “I like it a lot.”
“I knew you would.” Jason returned her grin. “Like I said. You looked like the type.”
“Come on, I bet you say that to everyone. I have to be a little more mysterious than that.”
“I don’t think so,” Jason said. “You’re not that hard.”
“What makes you say I’m so easy to read?”
“Just somethin’ about you makes me think you are. Maybe it’s the hair.” Jason nodded in the direction of the still unopened menu. “Do you want to order anything? We have a full menu here at the bar. Have you taken a look?”
“Not yet.” Lauren thought about it a moment as she swallowed more of her drink. “Well.” She tossed him a smile. “Since you’re such an expert on me, why don’t you pick something?”
Jason placed two hands on the bar. “You look like a sushi girl to me.”
“A sushi girl?” Lauren replied, turning interested once again at Jason’s choices for her. In truth, she didn’t eat much sushi. “What does a sushi girl look like?”
“Like you.”
A grin spread across her face. “Very funny.”
“You’ll like ours,” said Jason, confident. “We use fish caught right here in West Palm. The good stuff.” He glanced over at the other patrons. By now, HMF had a steady stream of new customers coming in the front entrance, no doubt fresh from dinner or one of the many parties hosted every night on the island. They jockeyed for tables and places at the bar like investors on the floor of the NYSE.
Lauren held up two fingers. “Two rolls. Your pick. But no eel.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hate eel.”
“I’ll make sure we serve you plenty of eel, then.” Jason smirked at her, gesturing in the direction her dwindling drink. “Another Redhead?”
“You read my mind,” Lauren replied, and laughed. As Jason turned away to place her order she turned her head and got an even better look at the people who’d just sat down at the bar, making it go from half empty to full in about ten minutes.
That’s when her laughter died.
There
he
sat on the other side of the bar, right in her vantage point. Right there, across from Lauren, and next to a tan blonde woman with curly hair who had to be in her 30s. Who at that very moment had her hand nestled in his caramel colored hair.
Him.
She would have recognized him anywhere, even though she hadn’t seen him in ten years. The passage of time didn’t matter at all. Not when it came to him. Full green eyes. A roguish grin. Firm, chiseled jaw. A small spray of stubble fanned out from his lips. Ten years had changed him of course, but she still recognized the smirk and the way his eyes intoxicated and mocked her. Lauren tried to look away and ignore the way her heart constricted in her chest, but she couldn’t. Not this time.
Trent Matthews.
Older, but no less handsome. No less electrifying. And no less magnetic.
“Oh my God,” she said under her breath. “I just can’t believe it.”
Lauren gave a quick glance down at her drink. She hoped he hadn’t seen her, and that he didn’t realize she sat so close. The blood rushed to her face and the memories of ten years ago flooded her unwilling mind. She took another quick swig of the cocktail. Another. And then a third one. Still not enough.
“Damn,” she said as she looked at her drink. Cocktails were all the same, no matter who made them — all fanfare, flash, and no substance. Now she had no more alcohol, and nothing more to distract her. She looked up again, this time over her right shoulder, and shuddered.
Trent Matthews stared right back at her — every chiseled, sculpted section of him. His bright eyes ensnared her. His broad shoulders questioned her. His jaw popped as he kept up the stare. As the seconds passed, he ignored the blonde woman seated next to him. For a brief moment, Lauren wondered if that woman was supposed to be his date. She wondered if she still cared.
