Rush (Hector & Millie) (Seaside Valleria #1) Read online

  “Amelia, I’m Hector Perez.” He held out his hand. “Good to meet you.”

  She looked dumbfounded at his hand for a moment, then shook it. As soon as their skin touched, she felt that warmth again.

  She slipped her hand very reluctantly out of his. She might have lingered if she hadn’t sensed Peckerhead’s gaze on them. “Good to meet you, too. Um, any friend of the Captain’s is welcome here. I’ll get your order in.”

  She saw the Captain come in and gave him a little wave before heading into the kitchen. Prince Lorenzo wasn’t your ordinary prince. He’d been a captain in the Vallerian Army and, even though he’d been discharged, many still called him Captain. He wasn’t fussy about formality, but Peckerhead was even if he hated the monarchy, so she’d need to do a proper curtsy when she went back to the table.

  Ugh. Clumsy people like her should be exempt from curtsying, or any type of ‘graceful’ movement, really. It just wasn’t possible, especially for a tall, curvy girl like her.

  Millie loaded the tray with Hector’s food—and seriously, how cool a name was that?—and headed back out of the kitchen. She probably should have let the kitchen staff prepare it, but she wanted to be the one to do it. She didn’t know why, she just did.

  She stopped by the booth and curtsied, pleased when she didn’t topple over or spill anything. “Evening, um, Captain.”

  Captain gave her a smile. He was hot, too, but to Millie, Hector was way hotter. “Millie, I told you to forget protocol.”

  Without looking at Hector, she transferred a mug of coffee and a plate with a mini fruit tart to the table in front of him and gave a furtive glance towards the bar. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “I think you’re afraid of more than that,” Hector muttered.

  Lorenzo gave her an understanding smile. “I understand, Millie.”

  She nodded. “Anything for you, Captain?”

  “Same as him. Thanks, Millie.”

  She scribbled on her pad and turned, still not looking at Hector. “Sure thing. Be right back.”

  After a quick glance around the pub, she saw the buzz in the room had grown and the pub was now packed. Several more people had come in and, thankfully, had not waited at the hostess stand and had seated themselves at the bar or the open tables, but the Captain was always priority. She brought out his tart and coffee and quickly dashed away.

  She made another round, collecting empties and bringing out fresh drinks.

  She was heading back to check on Hector and the Captain when she caught sight of Hector holding something in his hand, just below the lip of the table. The Captain probably wouldn’t see it, but she could. As she got closer, she saw it was a small pink and white scallop seashell.

  Her heart flipped again at the sight of that sexy man with a dainty seashell.

  His head lifted, and his eyes caught hers. She almost stopped dead in the middle of her stride, like a deer caught in headlights.

  Oh, man.

  He’s just a customer, Millie. Just a customer.

  Just a customer.

  Chapter Two

  Four months later…

  * * *

  Millie rushed down the sidewalk, run-walking in an effort to get to work sooner. She was an unattractive runner. Truthfully, running always made her look like an idiot, especially if she were dressed in normal clothes—as opposed to running or workout gear—so she run-walked, knowing full well that she looked stupid doing that, too.

  Shit. She was probably going to be late.

  She hadn’t meant to be late, but she got caught up working on her latest batch of handmade jewelry—earrings, necklaces, and the like—to sell at fairs and craft shows. She wasn’t making much at it now but enjoyed creating something beautiful and seeing other people wear that beauty, too. Her hobby was slowly becoming a steady second income, and she hoped one day it would be her only income. Then she wouldn’t need to deal with late nights at the pub, and—most importantly—she wouldn’t need to deal with Piers anymore.

  She made it to the pub and wrenched the door open with only seconds to spare before she had to clock in for her shift. As soon as she stepped inside, she heard a crash and froze.

  Her eyes, still adjusting to leaving the bright day for the dim of the pub, blinked as she tried to refocus and figure out where the crash had come from. Had she bumped into something or someone? She hadn’t felt it if she had.

  “Un-fucking-believable!” Piers yelled.

  Her eyes, now seeing clearly again, widened at the sight of him raising an arm, a bottle of something in his hand.

  He was aiming for her.

  His arm swung, sending a long, slim cylindrical bottle sailing through the air.

  She jumped to the side, ducking her head and using her arms as a shield.

  The bottle crashed against the pub doors and was followed quickly by the rush of liquid and its expected drip, drip, drip to the floor. Little pieces of glass sprayed everywhere, falling with a tinkle, while larger pieces fell with a plop into the pool of liquid. She felt a little damp on the back of her sweater; she just hoped the glass wasn’t embedded there along with whatever alcohol it was.

  Piers continued muttering, shoving other bottles, throwing them on the floor, his rage not banished but tamed a little.

  She slowly lifted her arms, one eye on Piers pacing back forth behind the bar, the other eye taking in the rest of the pub. They technically hadn’t opened yet, but there should be another bartender. She eventually caught sight of him, Rob, cowering in a booth.

  As they locked eyes, he shook his head a little.

  What did that mean? Not to move? Not to speak? Not to try anything?

  Men. They thought one little movement could explain everything.

  She tentatively rose from her crouch and heard more tinkling as she adjusted her sweater.

  Great. So, she did have some glass on her back. She hoped none had cut through her sweater. She saw a large piece of glass on the floor that had a label for a popular brand of vodka. Well, at least she wouldn’t completely reek of alcohol for the rest of the day.

  Checking herself, she wasn’t hurt. Glancing over at the bartender, he wasn’t either.

  Okay.

  Now, what was going on?

  She glanced around again and caught sight of a paper crumpled on the floor.

  Seeing Piers was still distracted—muttering and mumbling, now pacing while he ran his hands through his hair repeatedly—she grabbed it and began to uncurl the paper. Rob joined her, reading over her shoulder.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed.

  …regret to inform you…your liquor license has been suspended…due to your failure to apply for a renewal…insufficient paperwork…may remain open for business, but may not serve alcohol…you may reapply next year…

  Shit. Shit!

  “Fucking shit,” Rob said next to her, his voice so low only she heard. “I thought you did the license paperwork.”

  She crushed the paper in her hands, her fingers forming a tight fist around it. “I did. I fucking did. He even signed it in front of me, but when I went to mail it, Piers said he’d do it. The goddamn envelope was stamped and everything. He literally only had to give it to the postman when he came by or drop it in the post box, and that was it.”

  “Fucking asshole,” Rob growled. “Never does shit.”

  This was surprising. Not that Piers was an asshole—he definitely was—but that Rob was siding with her. The bartenders never sided with her when Piers was demeaning her or berating her. She didn’t think any of them even liked her all that much.

  “What the fuck are you two doing?”

  They looked up to find Piers striding towards them.

  “That’s personal business!” He snatched the balled-up paper from her hand, and she flinched.

  “Reading my goddamn personal mail! So, I guess you know. You fucked up, little sister, and forgot to mail the license paperwork. Dumb bitch.”

  Fucking goddamn mo
therfucking asshole! “I did not! It was—”

  He grabbed her forearms and jerked her back.

  She gasped and tried to pull away.

  He jerked her again. “If I say it’s your fault, then it’s your fault. Do you know how much money we’re going to lose?”

  She struggled to break free, Rob inching further away instead of helping her. What an ass.

  Piers jerked her again. “We’re a pub! People aren’t going to come here for fucking sodas and pretzels.”

  “Let go!”

  He jerked her again. “Got another letter from the bank a couple weeks back. They called in my loan. Said I had to pay it off by this evening or lose everything. I might’ve made it if you hadn’t screwed everything up.”

  Holy shit! No wonder he was more pissed off than usual.

  “Every bit of our lost revenue is coming out of your pay.”

  She sucked in a large breath. No. Not in any way, shape, or form was she putting up with that shit. “This is your fault. You dock my pay, I’ll sue you for it.” It was somewhat of an empty threat; she wasn’t sure she’d able to follow through if he called her bluff.

  His hold grew even more painful. “You won’t sue me. Where are you going to get the money, little sister?” He scoffed. “Little bastard half-sister, I should say.”

  It was true, all of it. She was a bastard—if the term meant a child born out of wedlock—and she was his younger half-sister. It wasn’t her fault their father was a philandering ass who couldn’t keep it in his pants. And it wasn’t her fault that her mother had been swayed by the guy’s once good looks and charm.

  Both of which, she might add, he had clearly never passed on to his son.

  Yet, even with all of that being true, his words still hurt. They were still a lance through her heart.

  She.

  Was.

  Done.

  Done with doing four times the work for a fraction of the pay.

  Done with her only sibling treating her like shit.

  Oh, yes, she was especially done with Piers. Time to show him just how done she was.

  She took a deep breath.

  Then she brought her leg up swiftly, so fast that he didn’t see it, couldn’t deflect it.

  With their position, she couldn’t knee him.

  So, she brought her leg up as hard as she could and legged him instead.

  Not as much force, but it got the job done.

  He let out a high-pitched whine and let go of her arms to grab his balls. She stepped back quickly. A dull ache below her shin and a pounding in her forearms began growing, and she knew she was feeling the beginning of some wicked bruises.

  Oh, yes.

  She. Was. Done.

  “I quit.”

  Saying the words out loud sent a sharp wave of fear and relief coursing through her. She didn’t know how she’d survive without even this meager income, but she’d find a way. She abso-fucking would.

  “I’m going to process my last paycheck and be gone, and don’t even think of stopping me. You’d never do it, and I am owed that money. I’m owed a lot more that than.” She considered kicking him again, this time in his stupid face, but couldn’t do it.

  She just wasn’t made for violence.

  She glared at the Rob, who shrank back. Pissant.

  She then strode away, leaving the mess of a man curled on a floor littered with debris and wasted vodka.

  She walked into his cramped office and willed her anger to stay so that remorse and reality wouldn’t set in. She wanted to be home for that.

  Home with her last real paycheck, home with the things she’d worked so hard to afford. She didn’t have anyone to comfort her, only the pint of ice cream in the freezer. She’d eat her ice cream and break down into tears, but only when she was completely alone.

  She sat down at the desk and nearly gagged. Piers kept a photo of himself on the desk. Actually, his entire office was littered with pictures of himself wearing a smarmy smile. She shoved the frame on the desk facedown. Then she processed her check for exactly what she was owed after taxes and printed it. He didn’t use a firm to process things—he made her do all the admin work—so she’d learnt everything she’d never wanted to know about payroll taxes.

  When the printer chugged to a stop, she removed the check, grabbed a pen, and headed back to the bar. Piers was leaning against it, his face full of fury, but his body still clearly recovering.

  “You bitch. I’ll—”

  “Sign this check? A brilliant idea.” She slammed the check and pen on the bar.

  “I’ll never sign that.”

  Not unexpected behavior from him. Her voice was ice cold when she spoke. “Shall I call the police, then? Inform them that my former employer is withholding my last paycheck? And that he did that after physically assaulting me? You know I’ll have the bruises to prove it.” And a witness, if the bartender grew a pair and backed her.

  Piers stared at her for long moments. She didn’t flinch, forced herself not even to blink.

  He turned first.

  She held back her smirk at winning. Her ‘bitch’ face would be more useful right now.

  He scrawled something on the check and shoved it back to her. She glanced down and almost sagged in relief that he’d actually signed his name. She assumed he’d write ‘fuck off’ or some other nonsense.

  She folded the check and put it in her pocket. Keeping her eyes on him, she walked backward towards the pub doors. She heard the crunching of glass under her feet—it figured he wouldn’t even try to clean it up—but continued moving back. She gave both Piers and Pissant Rob a glare as she continued back slowly.

  She only stopped when she hit something hard.

  It wasn’t the door, however.

  It was someone, and their hands were wrapping gently around her upper arms.

  “Steady, Amelia.”

  Her heart beat faster. She thought it’d been pounding before from the fear and anger, but that was nothing to this.

  Hector.

  Oh God. Hot Man Hector was here. Here! In the middle of her ‘storming-out-never-to-return’ drama.

  He hadn’t come back since that first time she’d met him in a haze of embarrassment.

  Oh God.

  Oh God! He’d remembered her name!

  She turned her head slowly to look over her shoulder, then up, up, up into his face.

  God, he was tall. She’d forgotten how tall. Then again, she’d never stood this close to him before.

  She swallowed. “Uh, hi.”

  He gave her a wonky smile—one that was a little lopsided and that was seriously very cute—and had the added benefit of dimples. How was she supposed to resist dimples?

  “Hi. You all right, Amelia?”

  Maybe it was wrong to think it, but she really liked the way her name sounded when he said it. She’d never really cared for her name. Her mother had picked the name, and she had mixed feelings about her mother, so it was why she went by Millie. Yet, maybe she wouldn’t mind her name that much if Hector said it.

  Particularly if he said it every day, maybe for the rest of her life.

  Where had that thought come from?

  She turned towards him and his hands didn’t lose their hold, they just shifted as she shifted around to face him. She licked her lips and his eyes fluttered down to watch. “Um, sure. I’m fine. Just leaving. Sorry for, uh, bumping into you.”

  His eyes flitted up to meet hers again, now narrowed and assessing. “Leaving?”

  She nodded. “I just, sort of, well, quit.”

  She wasn’t sure why she said it, but there was nothing to do about it now. She’d have to leave both him and the pub behind and try to figure out what to do with the rest of her life.

  Oh God. Quitters remorse was setting in. The fear of not having a steady, if paltry, paycheck was setting in, too. She had to leave immediately.

  She stepped away from him and his hands fell away. She missed them. Except for the other tim
e Hector had touched her wrist, no one had touched her that gently in a very long time. “Piers or the bartender can help you. Excuse me.”

  “Stay.”

  She’d been moving to the door but paused at his words, as if his voice had a physical hold over her.

  She glanced back at Piers, still fuming at the bar, his lips curled in a snarl. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “He won’t hurt you.”

  She glanced back at Hector, whose face was now as hard as his voice had become. “No way in hell does he hurt you anymore.”

  Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Yes, I know he won’t because I just quit.”

  His voice got suddenly deep. “That’s not why, baby.”

  Before she could fathom the implications of him calling her ‘baby’—and how nice it felt when he did—the pub doors opened and Prince Lorenzo entered.

  Seriously? How many more hot and/or royal guys were going to witness her storming out today?

  Captain frowned at the glass on the floor, looked to Hector with raised brows, then to her and his face softened.

  Wow. That was really nice, too.

  Then his face went to Piers and it went as hard as Hector’s.

  Piers scoffed. “We’re not open today.”

  Captain crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re not gonna be open tomorrow either.”

  “You can’t tell me when I can or can’t open. Just because you’re a royal, you think—”

  Hector growled. “Careful how you finish that statement, buddy.”

  “He can’t order me to—”

  One corner of Captain’s lips curled up. “Oh? As of ten this morning, Hector and I own this joint.”

  All of the air seemed to get sucked out of the room.

  Ho. Ly. Shit!

  Piers stormed over. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Captain crossed his arms over his chest. “You didn’t pay back your loan on time.”

  “I have until today! The bank said I had until close of business Tuesday. That’s today.”

  “You had until last Tuesday. Check the letter.”

  Oh, jeez. Piers never was very good with paperwork.