by S. L. Scott
“I don’t know, Harrison,” Natalie says, slipping out of her husband’s embrace.
“Did she say something to you?”
“Should she have?” she asks defensively, crossing her arms over her chest.
I exhale and run a hand over my head. “We had words this morning.”
Without blinking, she looks at me with her mouth open. “I thought you were here last night, just sleeping in.”
The tables have been turned, and now I’m the one who’s busted. I don’t have to justify my whereabouts to anyone and haven’t in years. But as she said, Tatum’s important to her, and I know her worry comes from concern for her friend. “I stayed with her last night. That was great. This morning . . . not so much. I’d like to go and talk to her . . . be there for her.”
Nick eyes me, seemingly invested in Tatum’s well-being. It’s not like he hasn’t known me his whole damn life. “Really?” I ask, annoyed.
He crosses his arms, and something appears to satisfy him. “I think you should let him go, Nat. It sounds like they have some unfinished business to take care of.”
Natalie’s gaze volleys between us a few times with a debate sparked in her eyes. “I don’t know if that’s wise since you had a fight with her as well. It’s not dump on Tatum day.”
“You’ve always been there for her, but today, I can be the one,” I say. The words that came so naturally off my tongue sound strange to my ears.
The one?
What the fuck am I saying?
I barely stepped foot in Manhattan, and she’s already written me off. That’s my wounded pride speaking. My heart says otherwise. Something tells me she needs to know someone else is in her corner right now. I can be that person.
She sets her bag on the counter. “All right, but promise me you’ll tell me everything when you get back.”
Holding up my hand in Scout’s honor, I say, “I promise.”
Since I have my wallet and phone, I don’t need to go back upstairs. “Text me the address?”
“I will.” Natalie then adds, “Be gentle. She’s strong, but her Achilles’ heel is her vulnerable side.”
I know. I found out the hard way, but I don’t say it, feeling protective over the time I’ve had alone with Tatum. “You can trust me.” I head for the door with the two of them in tow. Just before I reach it, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“The address,” Natalie says.
“If you hear from her again, convince her to stay.” I walk out and down the stairs. It’s faster to take a cab since one’s already heading my way. I raise my arm, and when it zips across the lane to the curb, I look back at them. They’re still standing there like worried parents. “I’ll take care of her,” I say and then get in the back of the taxi.
On the ride over, I debate if I should warn Tatum that I’m coming. If I do, she’ll leave. I know it. I’ve also learned how she handles confrontation. She ditches the situation. A trait she inherited from her mother.
If I don’t tell her, she may leave as soon as she sees me.
I’m willing to take my chances.
The ivy-covered restaurant has seating on the sidewalk, but I don’t see Tatum. I stop at the hostess stand, and say, “I’m looking for a friend. I’m just going to cruise around real quick.”
“Let me know if I can be of assistance,” she replies with a smile that I’m used to receiving.
My parents gave me my good looks, and I’m just naturally charming. Amusing myself while I search the restaurant, I don’t find her, but there’s a large patio out back, so I make my way outside. As soon as I do, I see her under a flowering tree in the corner. Seated alone.
I’d love a chance to admire how beautiful she is in a deep pink dress with bows on top of her shoulders. Her hair is in a ponytail high on the back of her head, and her chin rests in her hand.
I keep moving, though, wanting to be the one she can lean on. As soon as her eyes spy me coming, she’s stiffening her spine and clasping her hands on her lap under the table. I barely reach the vicinity before she’s asking, “What are you doing?”
I take the napkin from the plate and whip it in the air, freeing it from the shape of a fortune cookie, and sit down across from her. “I’m having lunch.”
“Here?”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
She looks around like I’m making a scene. I’m not. Just having lunch with a gorgeous woman on a Sunday afternoon in June.
Leaning closer, she whispers, “The check is on its way, Harrison.” She tries to catch the waiter’s attention by raising her hand, but when that fails, she adds, “I was already planning to leave.”
“Change your plans and have lunch with me.” My voice is even, my offer genuine.
We share an exchange, and then she asks, “How do you know I haven’t eaten already?”
I glance at the clean plate in front of her and the silverware that shines on either side of the porcelain. She continues looking around for any last-ditch efforts, but when she can’t think of any, she says, “Fine. I’ll stay to keep you company, but don’t drag this out. Just lunch, and then we go our separate ways. Okay?”
Grinning, I adjust the napkin across my leg and pick up the menu, settling in. “What do you recommend?”
“Harrison?”
My gaze slides over the top of the menu. “Yes?”
“Okay? No dragging this out.”
“Fine. Long lunches that lead to lazy Sunday afternoons in bed, which then lead to dinner and a hot bath right after. Your body slick against mine, coming until—”
“I will get up right now.”
I love getting under her skin, but I like her smile even more, which she’s granting me regardless of the threat. I chuckle. “Okay.”
“Good. As for the rest of that, it’s not happening either, and the eggs Benedict is their specialty.”
Lowering my menu, I ask, “Did you know eggs Benedict is named after a Wall Street broker who ordered the dish at the Waldorf Hotel in the late 1890s.”
“There are conflicting stories regarding that.” Her hand goes to her chest. “As a New Yorker—born and bred—I like the broker one the best.”
“What was it like to grow up here? Having a park as your backyard and walking the streets to get to school? I’ve never really understood city life when it’s more like a concrete jungle.”
“That’s because you have to spend time here to get to know it. There’s magic found around every corner. You just have to look for it.”
“Maybe you can show me.”
“Maybe. I’m pretty busy these days.” She looks away, studying every other person on this patio in avoidance of my eyes. But then she exhales heavily and meets my gaze.
I can’t successfully hide my smile when I see hers first.
The server arrives and clears her empty mimosa glass. “Anything else?”
Ordering, I reply, “Two eggs Benedict, a pitcher of mimosas, and flat water for the table.”
Her pen is still poised on the pad, but nothing was jotted down. She’s looking at me when she asks, “Oh, I thought we were clearing this table?”
“Nope, we’re staying and brunching together.” I grin right at Tatum. “Right, Tate?”
“You know that annoys me—”
“Brunch ends at two,” the server snaps at me.
Glancing at my watch, I reply, “More than an hour is plenty of time. Thank you.”
Her straight hair cuts through the air when she turns to leave.
When we’re left to our own devices, Tatum asks, “Did Natalie send you?”
“No. I volunteered for the job.”
“And what job is that exactly?” She crosses her arms over her chest, reminding me a lot of Natalie by the action. “Operation rescue Tatum from the humiliation of being stood up by her mom? Save your breath, Decker. I got this handled.”
I didn’t expect her to let her guard down for me, especially after this morning, so her defensiveness doesn’t com
e as a surprise. I do the only thing I hope will lower those walls for me again like they were this morning. “I owe you an apology.”
Her eyes widen. It’s nice to surprise her for once. “For?”
“For what I said this morning. You like to pretend stuff doesn’t get to you, but we’re all human. I can only assume you felt some anxiety about meeting your mom after what happened at the party, and I felt it was taken out on me. It stung, considering I thought we were having a good time together.”
Her body language has changed. Not from the champagne or because I’m laying out a ton of wisdom. It’s because I’m here. I’m listening. And, most importantly, I’m treating her kindly. She’s receptive because she’s trusting my authenticity. I care about her.
Tatum is so fucking frustrating, but there’s something about her that I just can’t let go of.
“I did take it out on you. Some habits are hard to break. It was easier to blame you than to admit I had hoped this time with my mom would be different.” When her arms lower, so do her eyes. While she toys with her napkin, her shoulders roll in on themselves, her body caving into her pain. “She’ll have a great excuse, one that will end an argument.”
“Will that reason take away the hurt she’s caused you, the pain of feeling abandoned?”
Her eyes dart to mine. “I haven’t been abandoned, Harrison.”
Reaching across the table, I hold my hand palm up for her. “You may believe you have to be strong all the time, but with me, you don’t. I like you.” I laugh to myself. “Prickly on the outside, soft on the inside. What’s not to like?”
“I haven’t been abandoned,” she repeats, but it feels more for herself than to convince me. The drinks are served, and our glasses filled. When we’re alone again, she says, “It’s not the first time I’ve been stood up by one of my parents, but it doesn’t sting any less.”
Taking a long sip, she sets her half-empty champagne glass down, and adds, “I don’t know how to make them understand how much it hurts when they don’t show up.”
“It’s not your job to make them understand. It’s their job to love you unconditionally. As for standing you up, I know I’m a poor substitute—”
“You’re not.” She finally rests her hand in mine, and our fingers wrap around each other’s. “I don’t know why you’re here after how I treated you this morning, but I’m glad you came. It takes a strong man to show up like you did. So, I want to apologize to you because you’re right. You did nothing wrong. I just let my insecurities get the best of me when you deserved better. I’m sorry.”
Our food arrives, and after the server sprinkles pepper over our eggs, she’s quick to walk away again. My stomach growls, but this conversation is too important to put off. “How many times have we started over?”
“More importantly, how many times will you give us another chance?”
I turn her hand over in mine, remembering kissing it this morning. “Well, as far as that goes, you’ve given me a chance or two. So, how about we stop taking chances and start giving each other the benefit of the doubt instead?”
Tapping her glass against mine, she says, “Here’s to friends with benefits.”
With a seriously ridiculous grin on my face, I laugh. “Now that’s something I’m definitely drinking to. Cheers,” I say.
Let the fun begin.
13
Tatum
Harrison is so much of what I remember of him in Catalina.
Sweet.
Interesting.
Attentive.
Thoughtful.
And yes, flirty.
I think that’s ingrained in him.
I’ve heard enough stories to know he’s had his bad boy ways, but I was never treated like a one-night stand despite being exactly that.
He didn’t have to show up today, but he did, and from what Natalie said in the text, that backs what he told me. He wanted to. He wanted to be here for me.
After the fight.
After the mean things I said in anger.
After treating him less than he deserved and kicking him out of my apartment, he showed up in a big way for me. As he said . . . steady, loyal, and reliable.
He showed up when my mom didn’t.
Swinging my purse beside me as we walk down the street, I ask, “Why’d you make me eat so much?” I’m teasing, of course. I tortured myself by stuffing my face full of food and champagne.
“You only have yourself to blame for that.” He bumps into me playfully but keeps his hands tucked in his pockets. I kind of miss the little touches we’ve shared, the accidental and the purposeful ones over the years. “I guess I can take a little responsibility. If I had made pancakes this morning, you would have just drunk mimosas instead.”
Keeping my eyes forward, I don’t let the moment pass without saying what I need to get off my chest. “I would have done the same for you.”
“What is that?”
“You think I’m stubborn to a fault, but I would have come to you if you were in my shoes.”
He stops in the middle of the sidewalk like a tourist. “Is that what we’re calling it? Stubborn?”
Shrugging, I reply, “Bitchy works too.”
“Too far. I’ve never once thought about you that way.”
When grumbling New Yorkers gripe when they have to move around us, I take him by the arm and pull him off to the side. “Did you think about me often?”
“More than I should for a woman who hated my existence.” Dare I tell him that I never hated him? That I’d simply hated that we never had a chance?
Wrong place?
Wrong time?
If I’d only met him in the city . . . Well, I wouldn’t have walked away so quickly.
His attention is stolen by the candy store window display. A proposal scene with a giant Ring Pop sitting in a swirl of cotton candy with the words “I Do” in colorful edible dots. He says, “It’s June. Fitting display for a wedding month, but it’s making me hungry.”
“Hungry? We just stuffed ourselves.”
“No, you stuffed yourself.” As he rubs his stomach, the hem of his untucked shirt rides up. Not as much as I’d like but enough to have me wanting more. I know what’s under it, and his body never disappoints. “It takes a lot of food to keep this body going.”
“Only food as fuel?” Fine, I do my share of flirting with him too.
He grins, turning back to me. It’s not surprise that lies in that wry grin, but I think satisfaction. Yep, he’s winning. If making me happy is a victory for him, I’ll let him take the lead.
But then he tugs his lower lip under his teeth, a lip bite that has my mouth hanging open. Who knew that would be the thing to drive my mind wild with fantasies?
Apparently, he did because he lifts my chin until my mouth closes again, and whispers, “Be careful, Devreux. You’re drooling.”
Tugging the door open, he enters the shop. And I’m still standing here like a damn fool in front of a giant Ring Pop proposal. Self-consciously, I wipe the sides of my mouth, just in case. Oh, thank God. All good. I open the door and join him inside the store.
With a handful of candy bags already in hand, he eyes the sea salt caramels when I walk up. “I didn’t know you were such a . . .” I hold up the candy in front of my face.
“Sugar Daddy?” He snatches the lollipop from me. “Very funny.” He’s laughing and drops the candy in one of his many bags.
“What can I say? It was lame, but the joke still landed.”
“Get to shopping, Tate. We need more candy.” He takes a pre-packed bag of the sea salt caramels and then cruises down the gummy aisle.
Since we’re the only ones in the store beside the employees, I walk down the other small aisle and ask, “So what’s with the candy, Decker? Secret sugar addiction? Part-time job providing candy to kindergarteners, or—” I gasp.
He moves a row of Junior Mint boxes, but let’s be honest here. He didn’t have to do that to be able to see me. “Or what
?”
“Luring your prey with your sticky sweets.”
“Damn, that escalated quickly.”
“Granted, I’m the prey, and for the record, I love Twizzlers.”
“A licorice girl,” he says like it’s a whole genre of women in and of itself. I’m not sure what to make of that response. He returns the boxes to the shelves, and adds, “I like candy, but I thought it would be nice to get Natalie some. Nick told me he’s been running out at night to satisfy her sweet tooth.”
Hearing him talk about my best friend with firsthand knowledge surprises me. Living there has its perks, I guess. But his action behind that knowledge surprises me more. “The pregnancy must have her craving all kinds of things she doesn’t normally eat.” I round the endcap and run right into him. Some of the candy falls to the ground, and we’re both quick to kneel, bonking our heads together, which sends me backward to my ass.
A bag of Sugar Babies lands on my lap, and he says, “Fitting.”
I’m not actually sure why, but it starts in my belly and overwhelms me until I burst out laughing. With his candy all over the place, he starts laughing too. Rubbing over the red mark on his forehead, he asks, “Why are we laughing?”
“I don’t know,” I say, giggling too hard to stop. “But it feels good.” It does too, like a hard-earned day off.
The store clerk starts shoving the candy back in the bags like a maniac. “Are you okay?” A certain someone might be high on the sugar.
Harrison waits for me to answer, concern suddenly jading the blue of his eyes.
“I’m fine,” I reply, holding my hands out. “Help me up?”
Surprisingly, the clerk takes one of my hands, but Harrison starts laughing again, and says, “I got her. Thanks.” He takes my hands in his, his thumb gently rubbing over the top of mine. “Hold tight, ba—” He doesn’t finish, but I wish he had. He hasn’t called me baby that many times, but I remember every one of them. Usually, he says it in the heat of passion, except the first time and now the almost last one.
He pulls me to my feet, his hands holding tight to mine, the toe of our shoes touching. There’s this moment between us—thick with tension, ripe with an imagination running away, a lightness from the laughter remaining—that feels so good.
