Right Time: Timing is Everything Series, #1

By Lexy Timms

Don't rush on anything.  If the time is right, it will happen.

 

Rae
I've always known I was meant to get out of the dead-end side of town where I was born. Trevor is my plan. He's from the right side of the tracks and I always knew he was going somewhere, so I want to hang on for the ride. But if I'm going to impress an experienced, wealthy guy and convince him I'm a keeper, I need to be more confident, and definitely not a virgin. That's when I turn to Sam. My best friend for as long as I can remember, Sam has always been there for me, and I hope he will again. One night with him and I'll be ready for Trevor. Only, when that one night is over, I'm not sure about my plan anymore.

 

Sam
I've loved Rae since the day I met her, I just never told her. We've been by each other's sides through everything and watched as each other struggled to find our way in our hometown. I can't blame her for wanting more. But I hate to see her with that guy. He's everything I've always hated about the rich guys from high school and now he's got his hands on Rae. Our arrangement seems like the perfect opportunity, until I realize I might not only lose the love of my life, but my best friend also.

 

Timing is Everything Series

• Right Time
• Right Place
• Right Reasons

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Shadow Publishing
• Release date: Feb 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201350437

Lexy Timms

"Love should be something that lasts forever, not is lost forever."  Visit USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR, LEXY TIMMS https://www.facebook.com/SavingForever *Please feel free to connect with me and share your comments. I love connecting with my readers.* Sign up for news and updates and freebies - I like spoiling my readers! http://eepurl.com/9i0vD website: www.lexytimms.com Dealing in Antique Jewelry and hanging out with her awesome hubby and three kids, Lexy Timms loves writing in her free time.  MANAGING THE BOSSES is a bestselling 10-part series dipping into the lives of Alex Reid and Jamie Connors. Can a secretary really fall for her billionaire boss?

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Timing is Everything Series

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Right Time

Right Place

Right Reasons

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Right Time Blurb

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Don’t rush on anything.

If the time is right, it will happen.

RAE

I've always known I was meant to get out of the dead-end side of town where I was born. Trevor is my plan. He's from the right side of the tracks and I always knew he was going somewhere, so I want to hang on for the ride. But if I'm going to impress an experienced, wealthy guy and convince him I'm a keeper, I need to be more confident, and definitely not a virgin. That's when I turn to Sam. My best friend for as long as I can remember, Sam has always been there for me, and I hope he will again. One night with him and I'll be ready for Trevor. Only, when that one night is over, I'm not sure about my plan anymore.

Trevor

I've loved Rae since the day I met her, I just never told her. We've been by each other's sides through everything and watched as each other struggled to find our way in our hometown. I can't blame her for wanting more. But I hate to see her with that guy. He's everything I've always hated about the rich guys from high school and now he's got his hands on Rae. Our arrangement seems like the perfect opportunity, until I realize I might not only lose the love of my life, but my best friend also.

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Contents

Timing is Everything Series

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Right Time Blurb

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Right Place

Timing is Everything Series

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Timing is everything.

If it’s meant to happen it will.

At the right time.

At the right place.

For the right reasons.

Chapter One

Rae

THIS JOB IS BULLSHIT.

I slammed the tray down on the stack by the kitchen door and stomped toward the small hole that constituted a break room for waiters. It was dark and had milk crates for seats, but it was at least somewhere away from customers who otherwise would overhear us when we absolutely roasted them whether we had an audience or not. Sometimes the only audience was the blank wall or a half-amused line cook. Sometimes it was other waiters and waitresses doing the same thing.

Either way, I had a mouthful of curse words lined up and had every intention of letting them loose.

I barely saw one of the tiny fibers of the mop as it brushed the floor behind the stoves before I passed it, and it didn’t click in my head why it would be there until I was already airborne.

Shit!

My back smacked onto the ground so hard, and the floor was still so wet, that it sounded like the heavens themselves had slapped me. I was vaguely aware in the embarrassment and pain of the sound of a wooden mop handle dropping to the floor and someone yelling in Russian.

Rae, are you alright? came another voice from above and behind me.

No, I replied simply, keeping my voice low and level.

Uhh... do you... need help up? the voice asked.

Amy, you weigh approximately four pounds. You can’t carry a full pitcher of tea, I grumbled.

While that might be true, it’s not like I don’t try. Here, take my hand, she said.

Her tiny hand came into view, and I reluctantly reached up to take it. As I sat up, I took an inventory of everything and realized that I was not, in fact, completely broken or bleeding. Somehow, I’d landed perfectly, and while I was sore, I was fine. I was more embarrassed than anything.

What the hell do you mean, girl go splat? a thunderous voice from the other side of the kitchen demanded.

I rolled my eyes as I tried to move away from the wet spot without falling again. Dennis, the head cook, was storming out of the office with the kid we called Rusev behind him. His name wasn’t actually Rusev, but he mumbled so much that it was all we could get from him. He seemed sweet, if a bit inept.

It’s fine, I said, trying to calm him down before he got to me. Don’t walk any further. I don’t know what’s still wet.

Dennis stopped on his toes and looked down. There was the mop handle behind the stove and the clearly wet spot where I’d fallen. My clothes were now wet too, and as Amy looked me over, I was pretty sure I was going to need to change just by looking at her facial expressions.

What happened? Dennis demanded. Rusev just said ‘girl go splat.’

He was mopping. I was in a hurry and didn’t notice and took a header. I’m fine.

Ah, dammit, Dennis said. Do you need an accident report?

Somewhere deep in my vengeful and still simmering mind, I did. I wanted to sue the whole damn hotel into bankruptcy and move to Spain or something. Somewhere far away. But I knew nothing would come of it. It wasn’t like I was the first person to go ass over teakettle back here, and I wouldn’t be the last. They would point to my being in a hurry and offer me physical therapy and limited duty for a few weeks rather than anything helpful.

No, I said. I’m fine.

You don’t look fine, Amy said. You looked like you were coming back here to fight someone.

It’s the stupid guy at table two. I put a hand up to Dennis and addressed him again. I’m fine. Seriously.

Gesturing to the tiny storage area that doubled as Waiter Bitching Room, I stomped off more carefully, and Amy followed. As I got in it, she was already digging in her bag, and like usual, the homunculus friend had a backup of everything, including a black button-up shirt that was somehow roughly my size.

Here, she said. You left this at my place last week when you came over.

Ahh, I said. I was wondering why you would have a work shirt three sizes too big.

Har, har. She cocked her hip to one side in a mocking way. Just put it on. You look like you just took a swim.

I’d be a hell of a lot happier if I had. I’m going to be feeling that tomorrow.

I pulled the shirt off, peeking around the corner to make sure none of the cooks were catching an eyeful. Quickly, I put on the other one and buttoned it up with my back facing the kitchen. It felt good at least to have a dry back. My ass would just have to air-dry.

I bet, Amy said. You would think this place could afford to pay someone with a little more sense than Rusev to clean up back here.

You would think, I agreed. They have all the money in the world to update the bar for the rich asshole business guys who constantly try to look down your shirt, but heaven forbid we want a chair in our literal hole-in-the-wall break room.

Truth, Amy said, sitting down on one of the crates and opening up her bag again. Let’s see. Chip?

She was holding out a bag of potato chips, another wild anomaly of Amy’s bags. She always had food. Because despite being four and a half feet tall and weighing slightly less than a cooked ham, she ate constantly.

No, thanks, I said. I’m going to take my break in a bit and order something from the kitchen.

Oh, like what? she asked.

I was thinking the rib eye. I haven’t had my weekly dinner yet.

Amy shrugged. I wondered if she was disappointed. The last few weeks, I hadn’t used my weekly dinner perk and had given it to her instead. It was how the hotel made up for the crappy hours, jackass guests, and shockingly low tips for people who made six figures every year.

It was maddening how little I made. At first, I thought it was because I was just bad at my job. Waitresses at the Grande Hotel got paid for smiling, remembering orders, and making the guys seem like they might, if they play their cards right, get their phone number. Being a fancy hotel directly between two major metropolitan cities, we got overnight businessmen from both, on their way to the other, and looking for something to entertain them.

That left me scrounging for tips at the Grande, because once those business-suit yuppies realized I wasn’t for sale, I got ten percent if I was lucky. Some of the other girls would keep the charm on and the buttons undone, at least until the tip was given out. Then they would simply disappear and let the Rusev bus the table while the guy hung around waiting to catch her attention again.

It was a cliché, working as a waitress in a hotel bar. But what else was I supposed to do? I could sit down at a mirror and look at my own reflection and tell myself I was better than that all day. It wouldn’t change anything. Everyone always told me the same thing too. I was never going to be worth more than what I was right now—a pretty, young waitress.

At least it was a better life than my father, who drank himself to death, or my mother, who died after ten years of battling cancer last year. But not by a whole lot. I came from nothing, quite literally on the poor side of town, and I would stay that way.

As long as I stayed in Rockford, that was.

You going to stick around for drinks tonight? Amy asked. Dennis would probably be buying after your tumble.

Dennis? Break the law and buy us drinks? Why, Amy, why would he ever do that?

There was only a momentary beat before we both broke into laughter.

Dennis was known for being a bit of a creep. Great cook, for sure, but he was always trying to date the girls at the hotel. He had run through most of them, but Amy and I had deftly avoided his advances, which wasn’t hard for either of us. We were twenty, and he was thirty-six and twice divorced. His primary method of getting play was to offer to buy drinks, and since he exclusively hired girls right after high school, it meant he was operating on some legally dicey ground.

Too bad his brother was the sheriff and therefore not only knew about his brother and didn’t do anything about it, but often came in, in uniform, to participate.

Remind me never to buy these chips again, Amy said. I eat them too fast.

You eat everything too fast, I said. But yes, those in particular are the ones I call ‘crack chips.’ Have you had the kettle corn ones?

Her eyes widened. No. I didn’t know they made those.

The gas station on the corner of Main and Terrace, I said. Down where I live. Stop by there next time you come over.

I will. Amy stood up and crumpled the now empty bag up into a ball before tossing it into the trash. What happened out there that had you all worked up?

I shrugged. After I fell, it didn’t seem to matter all that much. Just another asshole leaving a five-dollar tip on a fifty-dollar bill.

Shit, I hate these cheapskates, Amy said. These guys drive over here in their Lexus and Teslas and loudly talk about how they ‘raised profits a billion-dy percent this quarter’ and then act like any tip we get we should freaking grovel for. It makes me want to punch them in their fracking mouth.

Amy, you are an adult now. You can drop the f-bomb.

I did? she said. Anyway, didn’t you still have a table out? Table five?

Fuck, I said, hanging my head.

Oh, that f-bomb, Amy said.

Yes, that f-bomb, I grumbled. It’s four suits, and they shared an appetizer. Shared. And ordered water. Any hope I had of any tip at all is probably gone for letting them sit for thirty seconds without offering a refill.

Don’t worry about it, Amy said. I’ll get them. Whatever they tip, if anything, I’ll get to you. Go on break.

Are you sure?

Yeah. Tell Dennis you want the steak, and I’ll finish these bozos off.

You’re the best, Amy, I said, hugging her quickly, even if you talk like you walked out of the fifties.

Yeah, yeah. Go on.

Feeling a little less crappy, I headed back out to the kitchen and wrote my ticket to stick in the window. Shoving it into place, I opened the door to the hotel restaurant and deftly avoided the eyeline of the four-top that was in my section, weaving around the bar and heading to the little sunroom. This time of day, it was usually full, but right now, it was empty save one old man.

I pulled out my phone, a pair of earphones with a perennially tangled cord that I had long since given up untangling, and sat down. The steak would take twenty minutes, and I could watch just about a whole episode of reality TV stupidity in the meantime. Especially if I skipped to the parts where they just showed off their ridiculous wealth.

One day, I would have that. Or something like it. I just had to figure out a way out of this dump-heap of a town.

Chapter Two

Sam

THIS IS BULLSHIT, I muttered to myself.

Hey, man, I run a business, Mark said from behind the counter. If you don’t like it, order them online.

I have to have them today. I turned the bag with the guitar strings over in my hand. I can’t wait until they get here.

A day? Stuff ships in a day now, Sam. Marvels of our modern times.

Not here, you know that, I said. It’s always a day late. And besides, I can’t wait until tomorrow anyway.

Mark shook his head.

Guitar players are junkies, you know that? Mark asked. It’s why I stuck with drums.

Drums? You literally drum on every damn surface, Mark. You’re just as bad as me.

Yeah, but drumming on every surface costs me zero dollars, Sam. Zero. I can drum with my thumbs on this countertop all damn day, costs me nothing.

He had a point. He always did, if I had to admit it, but I refused to. Mark was one of my kind of people, even though he ran the only music shop in town, over in the good area. Being in the good area of town hadn’t completely changed him though, just made him a little less poor. Not that he was accepted by the hoity-toity folks who passed through town or had their McMansions on the hill. Not with his long hair and shaggy beard.

Is that how you saved up for your set? I asked. You have every damn gimmick known to man on that kit.

"It’s what Dream Theater has, he said proudly. If I want to drum like Mangini, I need to be able to have all the bells and whistles, right?"

"Yeah, but you have literal bells and whistles, Mark, I said. It’s insane. It’s a good thing you don’t play in a live band—you’d never be able to set that thing up in time between sets."

Mike shrugged. I’m a studio musician, Sam. I’m a different breed.

I huffed a laugh and looked back down at the strings. Twelve bucks was an absolute rip. I could get them online for four, six if I didn’t want to go cheap. Eight if I wanted something fancy. Hell, I could get neon green ones that would match the stock for twelve. At least then it would be a gimmick, and I could rationalize paying for it for the