hopeless romantic • taylor swift

CHAPTER FOUR

TAYLOR

Try harder.

It was a dick thing to say. I blamed my lack of sleep for my short temper.

"Morning, Taylor." A loan officer from the bank waved as he walked my way, slowing like he wanted to stop and chat.

"Hey." I raised my cup and kept on going toward the hotel. Given my mood, it would be better to stay in the kitchen today and avoid conversation.

The fall air was crisp and clean. Normally I'd take a few minutes to breathe it in, slow my pace, but at the moment, all I could focus on was the coffee on my damn shirt.

The neighborhood was quiet this morning. Kids were in school. The shops and restaurants on Main were open, but the bustle from summer was mostly over. People were enjoying the September lull and recovering from their months spent pandering to visitors. This was the time when locals took vacations.

I'd planned one. A vacation at home. Finish a few projects in the yard before winter. Find out if I still remember how to turn on the television or read a book. But with Monroe there. . .

The vacation was canceled, effective immediately. I didn't trust myself around her. Not with those pretty blue eyes brimming with secrets.

I sipped the last of my Americano as I walked, hoping the half cup remaining would fuel me through the morning. Instead of heading through the hotel's front doors, I ducked around the corner, following the length of the brick building to the alley and the service entrance to the restaurant.

The key was tight in the lock, something I'd fix on my canceled vacation. The door slammed shut behind me as I stalked toward my small office off the kitchen.

My desk was clear except for the staff schedule I'd been putting together this morning. Bills had been paid. Payroll information was off to my bookkeeper. One benefit of being here before dawn was that for the first time in months, my office work was done before breakfast instead of after the dinner rush.

I tossed my coffee cup in the trash, then went to the closet in the corner, reaching behind my head to yank off my shirt. With it shoved into a backpack, I tugged on the spare shirt I kept here in case of spills.

Try harder.

The shame on Monroe's face was punishment for my sharp words. What the hell was my problem? She lived in the loft. I'd agreed to let her move in. It was time to stop grumbling and deal.

"Damn it." I owed her an apology.

The Friday lunch hour would be busy with plenty of locals here to enjoy the end of their week. I was covering all meals today, which meant I wouldn't get home until after dark. My window to track down Monroe was now. So I strode out of the office and left the kitchen, weaving through the restaurant.

"Hey, Margareth."

"Hey." She smiled from her seat at one of the round tops, where she was cleaning check folders. "I'm almost done with this. Then what would you like me to do?"

"Would you mind checking the ketchup bottles in the walk-in?"

"Not at all." Margareth had only been waitressing here for a few months, taking the job after she and her husband had moved here. He was a truck driver and gone more often than not, which meant Margareth was always up for an additional shift because home was a lonely place.

"I'll be back in a few. If Romain comes in before then, would you tell him to start on the list I left on the table?"

"Sure thing."