by Anne Harper
Sloane’s defenses flared to life. She popped her hand on her hip and squared up.
“Grief? So far I’ve managed to score us a boat and decorations for free so the bar could have some much-needed media attention. Not to mention the posts online have gotten more people than normal in through the door!”
“Ha! Free my ass.” He motioned to his shirt. “All you’ve done is pimp me out for yard- and housework for your friends! And where are you during all of this? On your ass inside!”
Sloane saw red.
Why in the H-E-double hockey sticks had she been feeling conflicted about the prickly man-child in front of her?
“Without me, you would be on your ass for the entire festival! At least I’m forcing you to go out and socialize with the same people you want to come to your bar!”
“Forcing me?” He laughed again. One loud, mocking sound. “You didn’t force me to do anything. Remember, I was the one who saved you from Carol finding out your secret. Because you sure as shit weren’t about to fool anyone about you being just another woman—in a very long line of women, I might add—who’s in love with Arbor Bay’s Golden Boy. It’s pathetic, really.”
That was it. That was the tipping point.
Sloane’s face heated from sunburn and anger…and embarrassment.
Instead of yelling back, her voice went low and calm. She might be The Girl Who Said Nothing, but she wasn’t about to keep quiet at that one.
“Maybe I am pathetic. But you want to know what’s even worse? Being the guy we all pass up for him.”
Sloane didn’t wait to see if the insult landed or take a beat to even wonder if she’d meant it. Instead she went to the front door and opened it wide. The word “pathetic” was still ringing in her head.
“And you know what, Brady? If we’re both so pathetic, then maybe we should cut our losses now. It sure would be a lot less of a headache.”
Brady’s jaw was hard when he responded. “It sure would be.”
Then he left.
Chapter Eighteen
“It’s not that bad.”
Sloane was looking at her reflection in the mirror between the dressing room stalls and trying to rerun the numbers of how fast she could buy a plane ticket, pack a bag, and disappear into the unknown of Antarctica.
Again.
“It’s not that good, either,” she huffed. “I mean, you are seeing this, right? It looks like I put on really weird lingerie, covered it in glue, and then rolled around on your classroom floor.” Sloane touched one of the several multicolored feathers against the top of the mermaid costume. “Like, this doesn’t even make sense for a mermaid. Why are there feathers? Am I part bird, too?”
Emma tilted her head and looked Sloane up and down. Then she moved her eyepatch to her other eye and did it again.
“Maybe you’re a mermaid who fought a pirate? You know, one of those with the parrots on their shoulder. And you really decided to give it to him for polluting your waters.”
“So I killed his bird and decided to wear it?”
“Donning thy enemy’s loyal pet’s feathers as a reminder to him and the rest of his dirty scoundrels to leave you alone? That would be a pretty badass power move.”
Sloane opened her mouth to argue but found she agreed. “Okay, so intense power moves aside, I don’t think that’s going to fly for the pageant.” She picked at the gold plastic chain that hung beneath the top. She didn’t understand that detail, either. Just like she didn’t understand the sheer sleeves that were covered in glitter and random feathers and the bust portion that was black and barely covered anything. At least the bottoms were feather free, even if it looked like something you might wear to surprise your new husband on your wedding night. Sloane moved her butt around and gave it a long look in the mirror. “I mean, if I’m a mermaid, then why is so much skin showing? The sheer parts of the top make sense, but a sheer tail with a bikini bottom sewn under it? This is basically just a window to my ass.”
Emma laughed. Unlike Sloane, she had on parachute pirate pants that were more of a closed door.
“I told you this place has two moods—stock Halloween costumes year-round and then really funky stuff that either works really well or doesn’t. Personally, I still think this works.”
Sloane rolled her eyes and stalked back into her stall. Two other costumes hung up on hooks. One had a tail, but its matching top was the size of a glorified napkin. The other was a more reasonable outfit with a crop top and tights that were covered in metallic scale print. Sloane decided she’d go for that combo next.
“You know, you’d be singing a different tune if you were in my shoes,” she called through the door. “You get to play it safe with your sailor or pirate-whatever thing you’re doing. And you don’t have to go onstage.”
“Correction: I don’t have to go onstage for the pageant, but I’m front and center at Little Fishies in the Bay,” Emma shot back. “And I’ll tell you what, you don’t want to be wearing anything that shows your midriff when you’re chasing around a bunch of hyped-up five-year-olds. I still have nightmares of Nate Calloway using my arm as a tissue when he had that snot attack onstage last year. I mean, I’m a kindergarten teacher, and I’ve seen a lot, but wowzer. I’ve never seen that much slime come out of a kid before. Or anyone, really.”
Sloane cringed as she shimmied out of her bougie costume. A feather fell off in the process. She panicked that she’d broken it and might have to buy it as a consequence. So she stuffed it in her purse to hide the evidence.
“Well, still, I wish I could be a sailor instead,” she said after a moment. “Whatever talent we end up going with will probably be way easier if I had on pants. That weren’t see-through.”
“Then why not be a sailor? Nothing is stopping you. It’s not like the pageant has rules. You can go as a sailor or pirate or whatever and get Brady to go as a merman. The judges would eat that up. Actually, Brady shirtless would probably get you bonus points.”
Emma said Brady’s name twice, but Sloane had stalled out at the first mention. There she was, talking about the pageant, trying on outfits for it, and pretending nothing was wrong. That she and that very same man hadn’t had a yelling match the night before. One that had ended with her declaring that it would be better for everyone if they ended.
And Brady agreeing before doing a fantastic disappearing act.
Anger and hurt and guilt had tangoed through her conscience until the next morning, when she’d reached out to one of the only people in the world who could make life better. It was just a matter of good fortune that Emma had a substitute filling in for her so she could finish off her festival checklist in the city. Tagging along had been a temporary but soothing balm for the soul. But now that balm wasn’t doing jack. Just like the aloe lotion Sloane had slathered on after her shower.
The sunburn wasn’t as bad as she had feared, but she didn’t want to be peeling and flaking while onstage in front of most of Arbor Bay.
That is, if she was even going.
If she and Brady were even going.
It was after noon, and she hadn’t heard a peep from the bartender. Sloane had snagged Emma’s phone while she was checking out at the counter of the craft store with an obscene amount of glitter, papier-mâché, and googly eyes and had searched her social media accounts for any hint that Brady had called off their fake relationship online.
He hadn’t.
So Sloane hadn’t, either.
Now she was in Limbo between denial and complete avoidance. She hadn’t even told Emma yet. Her bestie had already given her a not-so-brief, slightly scolding I can’t believe you’re with Brady and never told me you even knew him conversation on the drive up. After that, an already gun-shy Sloane decided she’d keep the lie, the arrangement, and the breakup to herself. It was easier that way.
At least, that’s what Sloane kept mental
ly repeating when that guilt came back.
“You alive in there?” Emma’s voice made her start.
Sloane had a bad habit of babbling in real life and in her head.
“Yeah, I’m just wondering about moving to Antarctica again. Honestly, I think I could do it.”
“Move away? You once called me in a panic because your gas light came on while you were driving on the interstate,” Emma deadpanned. “You were crying.”
Sloane felt heat run up her neck. She went to the door and opened it a crack. Emma had already changed back into her shirt and jeans.
“I was nineteen and in foreign territory,” she defended, lowering her voice. While there hadn’t been anyone else in the dressing rooms when they’d first come in, it didn’t mean someone hadn’t snuck in and was listening now. Being in the city didn’t mean squat when it came to Carol Robertson. Her ability to ruin things was starting to become unparalleled.
And Sloane would be damned if she let Carol collect any more embarrassing stories about her. The ones she’d let loose on the internet were already too many.
“We’re still alone,” Emma said, picking up on her thoughts like the sister from another mister she was. “But, and I mean this in the nicest way, I wouldn’t mind being around a bunch of people who weren’t just bundles of stress. Honestly, you’re putting off a very anxious vibe, and it’s making me uncomfortable. Why don’t we go have a movie montage of us trying on cute and ridiculous outfits for the kickoff party at Cassidy’s and then grab a late lunch to help unwind a little? My treat, my little ball of tension.”
Sloane narrowed her eyes. “If you weren’t paying, I’d be offended.”
“Why do you think I offered?”
Sloane ended up buying the safe mermaid outfit and cheered up enough during their shopping montage that she decided on a party outfit that was a little more daring. Then her mood went even higher as she thought about the free food she was about to eat. So much so that, when a sign let them know about a bar coming up on the right, she actually did a little jump in the passenger’s seat, venting some of the pent-up excitement.
“Oh my God, let’s go there,” she yelled. It made Emma jump. The kindergarten teacher adopted a look that probably set little kids straight. Luckily, she saw the bar’s name and belayed her wrath before it could envelop Sloane.
“The Drinking Spot. Isn’t that the bar that’s competing with Cassidy’s Place?”
Sloane nodded.
Even if she and Brady were through, the fact was, she still felt like she needed to prove him wrong. That she was doing work to help the bar. It was just work he didn’t understand.
“Want to be spies while we eat?”
Emma flipped the blinker on.
“As long as you agree that we aren’t going to do anything reckless, I’m in.”
…
Brady was staring at not one, not two, but seven boxes of tampons. Some were sporty. Some were scented. Super, regular, slim. One even claimed to be pocket-size.
All were sitting on his coffee table.
Dixon was across from them, fingers steepled in front of his face, staring at the collection in deep thought.
“When I heard you walking around out here, this isn’t what I expected to find.” Brady took a seat in the armchair next to the couch. Dixon looked at him, and there was a surprising amount of fire behind his eyes.
“You want to know what a goddamn travesty is? How dang expensive these things are!” Dixon picked up the box closest to him and shook it. There was a cartoon woman on the box playing soccer. It was very festive. “Guess how much just this one set me back?”
Brady opened his mouth to answer, but Dixon was on a roll.
“Damn near seven dollars! And don’t even get me started on the pearl one. I close to lost it when she rang that up.” He threw the box down. “And women need to use these every month, Brady. Every. Month. How the hell do they afford it?” He shook his head, disgusted. “I was going to only put a few of these out at the party, but I have half a mind to throw them all in the bathroom with a sign that says, ‘Sorry about America.’”
“So you’re still doing the tampon platter for the party, I take it.”
Dixon nodded. “I’m telling you, it’s a service every bar should have.”
Brady laughed. Not at the idea but the sheer conviction behind Dixon’s words.
“I’m just hoping we have enough people at the party to appreciate the gesture.”
Dixon waved off his concern. “Once Missy Robertson put her stamp of approval on it, we were guaranteed almost all of Arbor Bay. Plus, didn’t Sloane say she was going to talk it up this week? I’m sure that’ll pull in whoever Missy missed. It should be a killer party. I mean, Mom and Dad are so excited that they’re going to help us and Santana run things. Even Lucy was talking about catching a flight here for the fun.”
It wasn’t unusual for the actual owners of Cassidy’s Place to step in and help when things at the bar became hectic—though it had been a while since things had been anywhere near hectic—but Dixon’s little sister possibly flying in was a new one. Brady played with the fringe of his shirt and fought the urge to pull his phone out to check it. He’d already spent part of the morning refreshing Sloane’s social media accounts to see if she’d canceled him.
She hadn’t, but Brady still had no idea if Sloane was even coming to the party anymore.
If she was, she certainly wasn’t coming as his date. Their arrangement was over—she’d made that clear the night before. Not only had she been the one to suggest they call it quits, she’d called him pathetic. And reminded him that she had a real life outside of Arbor Bay.
But remember: you called her pathetic first, so you can’t get butthurt over that, said a voice filled with shame in the back of his head. It had been talking a lot throughout his low-key day of hiding out in the apartment. Brady didn’t like it.
Mostly because he knew it was right.
He’d been an ass to Sloane because he’d fallen into the age-old trap of being jealous over the damn popular guy.
Yeah, he could admit that to himself.
He, Brady Knox, had been jealous of Marcus Robertson. Jealous when Sloane said she had been staring at Marcus all day and jealous when she said they should avoid temptation by not hanging out with the family again.
It was a nasty, crawling feeling, and Brady hated it now, just like he’d hated it when standing in front of a woman he’d once kissed like it was second nature.
So, he’d been a child and lashed out.
He said her feelings for Marcus, feelings she’d apparently had since she was a teen, were pathetic…because Brady was reminded that her feelings for him, a man she’d only known for a few days, weren’t real.
He had prepared himself to wake up to news that he and Sloane were through via social media.
Yet, there had been nothing.
Brady didn’t know what to make of that and had decided he wouldn’t try. Not until Sloane called him. Not until she told him what she wanted. Let her spell it out.
Just like she had last night.
“I’m going to take these to the bar tonight and see if Santana has any insights,” Dixon said, unaware that Brady wasn’t thinking about tampons. “I don’t want to be the typical man who tries to give out crappy products.”
Brady chuckled. “Doing God’s work.”
Dixon remained focused on his future task, and Brady decided to burn off some of his anxious energy by going for a run. He threw on his shorts and tennis shoes, grabbed a bottle of water, and was just about to leave his phone on the counter when a call started to come through.
It was Sloane.
Calling him.
Brady stood up straighter. Welp. I guess this is it.
He answered the phone, ready to hear exactly how Sloane was feeling. But i
t wasn’t her voice that came through.
“Hi, Brady? This is Emma.”
That threw him. “Hey? What’s, uh, going on?” Was Sloane getting her best friend to end their arrangement for her?
There was hesitation on the other side of the call. Then Brady heard Sloane in the background. He couldn’t tell what she was saying, but Emma’s next words came through the line crystal clear.
Though that sure as shit didn’t stop them from being confusing as all get-out.
“Well, Brady, your girlfriend and I did something really bad.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Drinking Spot was housed in an older building on a sloped lot. That meant that, while the entire building was one story, half of it was raised up on a brick foundation. According to Santana, while inside the bar didn’t feel off at all, looking at the back from the outside gave the appearance of it being lopsided. The back parking lot was butted up to the loading bay and the back door. They weren’t elevated, but two of the three windows that dotted the wall were higher off the ground than the rest. Maybe seven or eight feet off the asphalt, following the incline of the oddly sloped building.
It was under the last window, the one closest to the corner, that Emma Castings was standing. And it was in that window that Sloane De Carlo was stuck.
“What. The. Hell.”
Brady pulled his truck up to the left of the women and kept the engine running. He jumped out and hesitated a second to really take in the scene.
Sloane was dangling headfirst out of the window. She was folded at the waist and had both arms stretched down, hands planted firmly on Emma’s shoulders. It was not what Brady had expected to see, even after Emma had hurriedly explained over the phone that Sloane had pulled a “Winnie-the-Pooh” and gotten stuck trying to climb out of a window. Though Brady still had no idea why Sloane had tried to climb out of any window. Let alone one at The Drinking Spot.
