Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(10)

“Thank you.” Ms. Sebastian tilted her head to the side. “You’re a real hard worker.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know, I meant what I said before about you comin’ to work for me. Any interest?”

She dropped Ms. Sebastian’s eyes. “I don’t—”

“Don’t say no. Think it over first,” she said, swirling the ice in the glass, which reminded Laire of Erik up on the balcony, and made her heart ache from the quick flash of memory. “I work at the Pamlico House restaurant here in Buxton. You know it?”

Laire nodded. They were sometime customers of King Triton Seafood.

“If you decide you want a job, come find me. I could use a hard worker this summer to bus tables, maybe work up to waitress. I’d pay you ten dollars an hour to start.”

She gasped quietly. Ten dollars an hour? If she worked from four until midnight at a party, that would be eighty dollars some nights. Almost one hundred dollars in one day.

Not to mention, the idea of being able to come and go freely in this world: to see the clothes that the ladies were wearing for their summer vacations at the inn and learn how people like Erik Rexford lived . . . it was the stuff of fantasy. Almost outlandish in its scope and possibilities.

“I’d have to ask my daddy, ma’am.”

“Then ask him.” Ms. Sebastian tilted her head to the side. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen just.”

“Good.” She tilted her head to the side, looking closely at Laire’s face. “You’re very pretty, Miss . . .”

“Cornish. Laire Cornish, ma’am.”

“Laire,” she repeated. She offered a small smile. “I hope your father says yes.” Then she turned and walked back into the kitchen.

A job.

A real job, in the real world.

Not like helping her daddy on the boat, or working behind the register for Uncle Fox in the shop. Not even like making clothes for the women on the island, but a job off Corey Island, with a real paycheck.

She worked out some figures in her head, wondering how much faster she could get to Parsons or RISD if she started working as a waitress during the busy summer season. It hadn’t really occurred to her before now—to seek out a proper job off Corey—but now it did, and as she walked back to the boat to get cooler number four, her head was spinning with the promise of it.

But my father.

Her heart sank. Her father would never allow it. He wouldn’t like her leaving Corey every day. He’d insist that she could work in one of the cafés or restaurants on their island, or, if she pushed him, over on Ocracoke. She took a deep breath as her boots hit the boardwalk. How could she convince him?

“Hey!”

This time, she didn’t stop. She kept walking. She had important matters to think about.

“Hey!”

His flip-flops thwacked against the planking as he caught up to her.

“I’m working,” she said, without sparing him a glance. If she looked at him, she’d get all moony and distracted again, and right now she had to finish up her delivery and figure out a way to convince her daddy to let her take a job with Ms. Sebastian so she could start earning more money.

“You’re makin’ me think you don’t like me, Freckles!”

Freckles.

Oh, my heart.

She stopped dead in her tracks and jerked her head to face him. “Not like you?” As if that was even a possibility. “No! I just . . .”

She had her back to the railing, and suddenly the boardwalk felt very narrow as he took two steps toward her, closing the distance between them and stopping directly opposite her. He leaned his elbows on the opposite railing, which pushed his chest out toward her and left no more than a few inches separating them.

“Just what?”

“I don’t know you,” she whispered, staring up into his black-coffee eyes.

They widened, flicking to her lips, as they had when he’d talked to her outside the kitchen a few minutes ago. “But we could remedy that.”

“Why?” she murmured, her chest rising and falling rapidly for reasons that had nothing to do with hauling coolers.

“Why not?” he asked, his perfect lips tilting up in a grin. “Unless you’re married. Are you married?”

Her lips twitched. “I’m only eighteen.”

“So . . . is that a yes or a no?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not married.”

“Hmm.” His eyes dropped to her left hand. “No engagement ring either.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are we done here?”

“Not even close,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “Are you about to enter a convent?”

“F-for nuns?” She chortled softly. “No!”

“Are you about to move away to a distant land where it would be impossible for me to find you?”

“No.”

“Not married. Not engaged. Not entering a convent. Not movin’ away.” His eyes narrowed, and he straightened up. “Boyfriend?”

She raised her chin, thinking of Brodie’s lies. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s my birthday tomorrow,” he said, his body relaxing. “Go out with me.”