Love & Curses (Cursed Ink) (6 page)

She dreamed of what it might be like to sleep in his arms every night. The lifetime of memories they could create. The happiness they would share, and his promise to never leave her.

Rolling onto her side, she reached for him. But cool sheets met her hand.

“Andy?” She opened her eyes to somber morning light streaming across the bed, and her chest tightened.

Gone.

Aunt Nadya had been right about one thing. She
was
cursed. At love.

Grabbing her robe from the floor, she swathed her body in the thick terry and dragged herself to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, taking perverse satisfaction at the icy sting to her skin. Straightening, she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror.

“You were an idiot to believe. To hope.” She shook her head, hardening her heart in resolution. “Well,
no
more. You’re done.”

She spun on her heel and headed to the kitchen. God, she needed some coffee—with a decent splash of brandy. Flipping on the light, she set about filling the maker with a filter and fresh dark roast ground coffee. She turned to get a mug from the cabinet and spotted the folded paper on the counter next to the phone.

Hope sprang to life in her chest, but Calista gritted her teeth and squashed the giddy sensation. Squaring her shoulders, she eyed the simple, white note.
It’s a Dear Jane letter. Not a declaration of undying love.

She reached for it, held it in her fingers while longing and doubt grappled for control of her emotions. How many times had she stood in a similar situation, waiting for some type of confirmation of her worth as a person, that she did indeed deserve to be loved? Steeling her nerves, she opened the note.

Calista-

Restaurant called. Had to go in. We’ll talk later.

Andy

She sucked in a deep breath. His message had been short and to the point—like ripping off an adhesive bandage strip. Just as she’d expected. Dropping the paper on the counter, she turned to get a mug from the cabinet.

Whatever.

***

Andy strode from the walk-in cooler, his arms laden with catfish, shrimp, and lobster, which had been steamed an hour earlier. With all the chaos, he hadn’t realized the dinner crowd would be arriving in less than an hour until Rosella had alerted him. Why his head chef had decided to go all diva on everyone, Andy had no clue—and neither did anyone else at the restaurant.

When he’d arrived at six that morning, his Sous Chef met him at the door. “It was like the dude just snapped,” Rosella told him. She’d waved her hand toward the kitchen. “Set the place on fire and just hauled ass. Jimmy helped me put the flames out, and then I called you.”

Andy had walked into a smoky kitchen, the exhaust fans doing little to diminish the haze. The grill had been charred. Dishes had towered head high in the sink. Bits of burned food had lain strewn along the prep counter. Everything had been covered in soot and muck.

His gut had roiled at all the damage. He’d just hired Antoine two weeks earlier, his resume and references impeccable. But holy shit, it had looked as though the guy had doused everything with cooking oil and lit a match. It’d taken the entire staff two hours of serious scrubbing to get the kitchen in working order again, and they barely finished before the breakfast crowd had arrived.

Andy glanced at his watch again. The day had passed in a blur of cleaning, cooking, and serving. Damn, he was exhausted, but without a head chef, they were shorthanded. He had no choice but to stay and ensure the rest of the evening ran smoothly.

“What’s on the menu, boss?” Rosella grabbed several bowls from the shelf and joined him at the counter.

“The specials are Lobster Creole, Blackened Catfish, and Shrimp with Grits.” He set his armload onto the prep table, thankful the smoke hadn’t tainted the seafood and fish. If it had, he would’ve been forced to close for the night. He glanced at his dark-haired assistant. And if Rosella and the rest of the staff hadn’t rallied to scrub the kitchen clean, he wouldn’t be cooking anything. “Grilled vegetables, tossed salad, and Bananas Foster for dessert.”

“Uh-oh.”

His shoulders slumped. “What now?”

“The peppers got a little singed, but I think I can work around that.” She grimaced. “But the parsley is toast.”

He sighed and glanced at his watch. How the hell had it gotten to quarter to five already? He yanked off his apron. “I’ll run to the corner and buy some. You get the sauces going.” He strode to the kitchen door. “And put Randy on salad prep.”

“Got it under control, boss,” she called back.

Andy walked through the dining room, heading for the front of the restaurant. As he approached, he noted a couple of early diners speaking with the hostess.

“Name please,” Sheila said.

“It’s under Walker,” the guy replied. “Ben Walker.”

“This way, please.” She turned to lead them to their table.

Andy frowned. No way it was the same guy. Unable to stop himself, he tapped the man’s shoulder. “Ben Walker?”

“Yeah.”

“You know Calista Page?”

Ben tilted his head as though trying to remember someone as unforgettable as Calista. “Oh, yeah. Dark hair. Big gold eyes.”

“Right.” Anger balled in his gut. She’d been right. The guy was a bastard.

The asshole snapped his fingers. “Wait. You’re
him
.”

“What?”

“You’re the guy.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “I heard you saved Calista from getting flattened by a piano.”

“Wow, yeah I did.” With a nod, he imitated the asshole’s action and gestured to the door. “And I heard you got cursed by her aunt. That’s harsh, man.”

Ben blanched for half a second then snorted. He pointed at a leggy blonde with huge tits, who waited for him next to the waitress. “Do I
look
cursed to you?”

“Honestly? You kinda do.” He walked to the door and shoved it open. “It’s in your eyes. Windows to the soul.”

Andy strode down the sidewalk, an angry sense of satisfaction at getting the last jab in coursing along his nerves. What a fucking prick. What she’d ever seen in—

Oh, shit. Calista!

He dug in his pocket for his cell phone. He’d left her a note telling her he’d call her, and the day was nearly over. God, she must think him an insensitive bastard, too. He tapped the screen to bring up her number, but the lack of bars at the top indicated no service. He frowned. He’d made hundreds of calls while walking down this road to the fresh produce market. As he crossed a side street, he checked again. But when he brought the call screen up, the cell beeped twice and blanked out.

Dead battery. What the fuck?
Well, all he could do was plug it into the charger he kept in his office at the restaurant. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be too angry with him. Continuing down the sidewalk, he shoved the useless phone back into his pocket.
What the hell else can go wrong today?

Glancing up, he spotted dark smoke curling into the air above the fresh produce market. Flames danced along the edge of the roof, the once white eaves charred black. In the distance, sirens wailed.

Chapter Seven

“Enough.” Calista slammed the refrigerator door, the bottles clanging against each inside, and stomped through the house to her bedroom. Chalk today up as a total failure, beginning with that damn note from Andy.

Stomping back up the stairs, she strode through the shadows veiling her room, bitterness churning her stomach, and flipped on the bathroom light. She should have known once they’d slept together, their relationship would turn out the same with him as it had with every other guy she’d ever fallen for. She’d been stupid to think he was any different. He was male after all, and apparently men were after one thing only—and commitment sure as hell wasn’t on their list.

Gritting her teeth, she yanked her shirt over her head and stripped off her pants. But, damn, she’d been so sure Andy
was
the exception to the rule. He’d always been there for her. He’d said all the right things and done everything to make her believe he wanted her in his life permanently. He’d promised her, damn it.

She was such a fool. Wadding her clothes into a ball, she chunked them into the hamper. She probably didn’t even have his friendship anymore. Wasn’t the loss of their easygoing relationship the very thing that had held her back initially?

Turning, she caught her reflection in the mirror. A sallow complexion masked her olive skin. Her bright, golden gaze, replaced by hollow, dark eyes with smudges beneath. God, she looked horrible.

“No wonder he ran.” She frowned and twisted the faucet handle.

There was so much she hadn’t said that she wished she could tell him. Change his mind somehow. But she had no idea what words would make him want to stay with her.

Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water on her face. Maybe her aunt was right, maybe she
was
cursed. Although, Death couldn’t be the one after her. With her string of miserable, failed romances, all signs pointed to whichever mythological Roman deity was Cupid’s nemesis.

Reaching out, she grabbed the hand towel and patted her skin dry. She’d gone to visit Aunt Nadya first thing after church services as she’d promised. The woman had gone on and on about the Grim Reaper, and how the black magic she’d performed on Ben had backlashed. How instead of her, the repercussions had splashed over onto dear, dear niece. During their conversation, her aunt had even admitted to staying up the entire night before, searching every book she owned for a spell to reverse what she’d done. By the time Calista had left, the old woman had been certain the only way to stop Death was with true love.

She snorted. “Yeah, right.”

The thing was, she’d thought she had found it. But thinking back, the accidents had only occurred during the time she’d been with Andy. Since she’d read his note and finally faced the truth this morning, she hadn’t experienced a single brush with death.

She snatched her nightgown from the hook on the back of the door and tugged the soft fabric over her head. “So much for all the Gypsy hocus-pocus.”

Calista flipped off the bathroom light and padded through the darkness to open her window. She pushed up the bottom half of the double-hung pane, and a warm summer breeze wafted through the screen. Glancing across her yard, she noticed Andy’s house remained dark. Was he still at the restaurant, or had he gone to bed already, leaving her alone to deal with his rejection? Well, if he
did
happen to be working late, she would hear his return as she had a million other nights.

Biting her bottom lip, she twisted away.
God, how pathetic is that?
Crossing to her bed, she burrowed beneath the linens, the comforter failing miserably to do its job and, well…comfort her.

Before coming upstairs, she’d checked all the phones in the house to ensure they were working on the off chance she’d been wrong about Andy. They’d been fine. She rolled to her side and glanced at the clock. Twelve-oh-eight. Taking her cell from its cradle on the nightstand, she checked her voicemail and text—
again
.

No missed calls. No messages.

She slammed the phone to the bed and inhaled a shaky breath. She would not call him or go to his house or pine away for something she could never have. No matter how wonderful he might have seemed, she just…wouldn’t.
Shit. Time to accept the facts.

Tears welled, and a sob tore from her lungs. A horrible ache writhed in her chest, squeezing her lungs and forcing her body to curl into a tight ball.
Oh God.
Unable to ignore the pain stabbing her heart, she let the sorrow of his rejection free and cried until she soaked her pillow with countless droplets of salty misery.

At last, exhaustion shrouded her body, and she drifted on the edge of oblivion.
Oh please, let me wake tomorrow and be able to put Andy behind me and move on.
But a voice deep within her soul whispered he was the one guy she would never get out of her heart.

She couldn’t breathe. A hooded man with bony fingers stood next to her bed and held a smoky scented cloth over her nose and mouth. Panic raced through her, and she fought to break free. She dug at his arms and kicked at his legs as she struggled against her attacker.

In a blur, he skittered on top of her, his face so close she could easily make out the rotting flesh and oozing pustules in the gloom. Releasing the rag, he slipped his icy hands around her neck and squeezed.
“Nothing personal, Calista. Your aunt should have known better than to mess with a darker, stronger power. Someone has to pay, and you’re it.”

“No!” She gagged and bolted upright, jarring herself awake. She pressed her fingers against her throat, unnerved to find the skin cold beneath her touch. Still foggy from the nightmare, she frowned and inhaled a deep calming breath. Instead, she coughed, and her eyes burned.
What the…?