I should’ve, but what we did was way more fun.
I didn’t mean to sext him. I planned on sending a harmless text asking if he was busy, but very real fear streaked through me when I pictured him getting busy with someone else. I hoped Davis wouldn’t have moved on in three days, but I was the one who called things quits between us. It’s not as if he wouldn’t be within his rights to see someone new.
I texted the eggplant emoji for one reason: If he’d moved on, I could play it off as a joke.
Sometimes an eggplant is just an eggplant.
In the kitchen I fill the teakettle with water and crank the gas to high, rummaging through my cabinets for cookies. Score! An unopened bag of Pepperidge Farm Milanos. This is really my night.
I’m tearing open the package when I hear a knock. I drop the bag onto the counter and arrive at my front door slightly out of breath.
When I open the door, Davis sweeps me into his arms and kisses me. Hard. I’m used to his kisses being controlled, but this one is downright wild. His fingers find their homes in my hair as I cling to his neck and kiss him for all he’s worth. He’s worth way more than I imagined he would be.
I lower to my heels when he finishes our kiss with a few tender smooches.
His voice is craggy when he admits, “I missed you, Gracie Lou.”
The words “I miss you too” are stuck in my throat. I can’t get them out. He doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles down at me and shuts the door behind him. I survey his attire with raised eyebrows.
“You were actually wearing a white T-shirt and sweats.” And sneakers. Without socks. He pulls the leather coat from his shoulders and tosses it over the banister.
“You said you needed me. I wasn’t about to waste a second changing.”
I bite down on my bottom lip, feeling full, and happy, and just…Yeah. Happy.
“Hang on.” He leans outside, then steps back in, shutting the door behind him. “This was on your doorstep.” He offers the narrow bamboo box with the word ZEN burned into the wood. “Cigars?”
“Tea.” I take the box, my eyes misting over. I haven’t seen one of these in years.
“Secret admirer?”
Not even close.
I clear my throat and force a smile I really don’t feel. “It’s from my dad.”
“Fancy.” Davis props his hands on his narrow hips and surveys my small living room. “So. What do you want to do tonight?”
I shove my dad’s unexpected gift to the side and pull my own box of cheap tea from the cabinet. I won’t allow him to mess up what could be a perfect evening.
Davis is handsome and charming and real and here. He’s here because I told him I needed him. A man being here when I need him is a novelty I’ll bet won’t wear off anytime soon.
“How about that zombie show?” I ask.
“You’re on.”
—
A few hours later, we’re starting episode three. I drank my hot tea and Davis had a beer. Our empty bottle and mug sit side by side on the coffee table. I take my eyes from the mayhem on the screen to study the contrast between the pale pink mug with the string and tag dangling over the edge and Davis’s empty Sam Adams bottle. Like us, you wouldn’t expect to find them together.
Davis squeezes my foot where it rests on his lap. At some point, I sank onto my back on my small couch and put my legs on his lap. He let me, which I like.
In another oddly comfortable move, he leans forward to grab the remote and pause the show. “Ready for bed?”
I take my eyes off the still of a decaying zombie to focus on Davis’s painfully handsome face and sexily rumpled hair.
“I’m okay.” I’m tired but not ready for him to leave yet.
“You sure? You look sleepy.”
“Thanks a lot!” I poke him in the chest with my big toe. He grasps my ankle and heat shoots up my leg. I want him again. This is ridiculous.
“Was that insulting?”
“When someone says you look tired, it usually implies ‘haggard.’ ” I tug my leg out of his grip, breaking the heated connection, and sit up. I fuss over my hair and swipe the hollows of my eyes in case my mascara has migrated.
“I didn’t say ‘tired.’ I said ‘sleepy.’ ” He palms my neck. “Warm and cuddly and sleepy. I was implying we should go to bed.”
“We?” I shift, but not to move farther away. He takes advantage of our closeness to kiss me on the mouth.
It’s as incredible as every other kiss he’s given me.
“Invite me to stay, Gracie,” he says against my parted lips.
We’re in dangerous territory. Dangerous dating territory. In spite of my instincts screaming at me to tell him no and go to bed by myself, I nod my affirmation.
“Need to hear the words.” He pushes me to my back. Hovering over me, he slides his hand to my butt and hitches my leg over his hip. His hips settle between my legs, his weight familiar and welcome, the nudge of his budding erection even more welcome.
“Stay.” The microsecond it’s out of my mouth, he kisses me.
We kiss until my television gives up on us and winks off on its own.
We’re not far behind.
Davis leads me up the stairs to my bedroom and tucks us in. The last vision before my heavy eyelids close is his incurable smile.
Chapter 13
Davis
Poker night at my place isn’t a regular occurrence, but when Simps mentioned doing it again, I offered my apartment. By ten thirty, I’m sitting at my kitchen table with a few remaining core players: Simps, Charmaine, who is pretty much one of the guys, and Vince. There’s rock music in the background, a bottomed-out bowl of cheese dip, and a neglected veggie tray.
“No one ever eats the vegetables except for me,” Char grumbles as she snaps the lid onto the plastic container.
“I ate a carrot stick to test what it’d taste like with the cheese dip.” Vince shakes his head. “Not good.”
Char clucks her tongue, and next to her Simps makes a futile attempt to scrape cheese from the bare bowl before giving up and eating the chip.
“Poor Char,” he says as he chews. “All that slaving you did over the supermarket cash register gone to waste.”
“You’re such an ass,” she tells him with a roll of her eyes.
Simps dusts his hands on his jeans and turns to Vince and me. “Cigar?”
“No, I’m looking forward to kissing my girlfriend tonight, but thanks.” Vince’s smile is relaxed and, frankly, enviably dopey.
I open my mouth to take Simps up on the cigar, but what if Grace texts me after she’s done at work? I don’t want to go over there smelling of cigar and lose my chance to kiss her.
“I’m out,” I say. “But help yourself to the balcony.” At the back of the hall beyond my office is a guest bedroom with a balcony facing the city lights and the river—not a bad view for cigar smoking.
“Since these boys are pansies, allow me to take you up on the offer,” Charmaine tells Simps. She loops her arm in his and walks with him to the back of my house. I hear her add, “That way if we kiss, we’ll be on even ground.”
“She’s something else.” Vince shakes his head as we hear the balcony door open and shut.
This past summer, Char offered Vince sex in no uncertain terms. He declined—he was already seeing Jackie—and then he asked why I never dated Char. The answer is simple: I don’t date or screw chicks I work with. Even if we aren’t showing up at the office together, Char is a no-go for me. She is a blonde, and an attractive one at that, but not my type.
Now that I think about it, I always told myself Char wasn’t my type because she was bawdy and a touch too bold. Sounds like a certain wily redhead, doesn’t it?
“I didn’t put those two together.” Vince tips his head toward the back bedroom.
“Char and Simpson,” I comment, having never thought of it before. Simps is a good guy. Smart, funny, and not a dick to women. Char is tough but prides herself on being, as she ca
lls herself, a classy lady.
I notice Vince’s empty bottle. “One more?”
“Sure, why not?”
At the fridge, I answer his question. “Because Jackie has your balls in her pocket and wants you home by eleven?”
“Nice try. You’re just bitter because you’re alone.”
I hand over his beer and Vince takes the opportunity to be sincere instead of berating me further. Honestly, either was fine. I’m used to him giving me shit. Dudes aren’t known for their sensitivity with each other.
“Sorry about you and Grace.”
“Why?” I’m genuinely perplexed for a few seconds. I prop my feet on Char’s abandoned chair and cross my legs at the ankles.
“Jackie was pretty excited when Grace mentioned you two were seeing each other. She said you were—and this is a quote—‘perfect’ together.”
“How did she—?” and then I remember how Vince and Jackie scoured the town looking for me not too long ago. “My wedding day,” I conclude, pulling a hand down my face. “You worry too much.”
“Davis.”
Vince was ankle deep in the sand with me on my wedding day. He witnessed every agonizing second of my waiting for my no-show bride. He was there afterward, too, for as long as he could be before he and Leslie had to fly home. And he was there way after the fact when I returned home and didn’t know my ass from my elbow. It’s more than I can say for every other person who attended. I don’t talk to any of them anymore.
“You can alleviate Jackie-O’s concerns.” I drink from my fresh Sam Adams. “Grace and I picked things up again.”
Vince’s eyebrows climb his disgustingly handsome face. His dark hair and blue eyes make us mortal men peasantlike by comparison.
“That’s great,” he tells me, but I can tell he’s waiting for more. When I don’t offer it, he pushes. “What’s going on?”
I shrug. “She chose a package and ended things and then showed up at my house on the night you told her not to.”
He ignores the package reference, because he’s busted my balls about it too many times to count. Instead he addresses the alarming fact I just shared.
“Grace came to your house on your former wedding day?”
I nod.
“And you let her in.” This is stated in rigid monotone, Vince’s narrowing gaze suggesting he’s wondering who body-snatched me.
“I was on my way out to see her anyway. No reason not to let her in.” I frown, uncomfortable with the look of alarm on Vince’s face.
“Are you going to make me play one hundred questions, or are you going to fess up and tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. We ended, then we started up again. What’s the big deal?” But even as I ask, a prickling, uncomfortable sensation climbs my neck. This isn’t typical for me and Vince knows it.
“Oh, I don’t know, could it be because Grace is the first woman you’ve really dated since Hanna?”
I shrug again.
“It’s significant, Davis.”
“It’s not an issue, Carson,” I snap, using his last name.
Vince leans on the kitchen table, hand wrapped around his beer bottle. “I’m going to break this down for you, because you would do the same for me.”
He waits for me to argue, but I don’t. He’s right. I would absolutely break things down for him if there was a bigger picture to which he was blind. I care about the guy, and he cares about me too.
“Six years ago,” he continues, “Hanna left you standing barefoot on the beach when she didn’t show up for your nuptials. You spent your honeymoon solo—unless rum counts as a companion—”
“Sometimes rum is the best companion.”
“—and since then you’ve been face-planting onto every blonde who crosses your path without coming up for air.” Vince pauses to think. “Almost every blonde. Charmaine wasn’t on your to-do list.”
I nod my affirmation.
“And then you start dating Grace, who you tried to get me to ask out, I might add.”
“Only because someone should. Anyway, she bet me two hundred dollars I wouldn’t ask out the next nonblonde who approached me. You know I can’t pass on a sure thing.”
Vince chuckles. “Did she pay up?”
“Not yet.” I pretend to ponder. “Do you think that’s why I’m letting her hang around?”
“You tell me, Price,” Vince says, lobbing my last name back at me. “Is she clingy?”
Not clingy enough. I had to practically beg to stay at her house the other night.
“Not clingy,” I answer.
A lengthy silence stretches between us. Simps and Char laugh and the sound carries through the glass door at the back of the house. Since they’re well out of earshot, I give my best friend another factoid I’m sure he’ll be interested in.
“I told Grace about Hanna. The wedding. All of it.”
I expect Vince to point out what that obviously means. Or mention how in denial I am. Or illustrate how different Grace is and tell me he understands exactly why I told her the one part of my past I’d never voluntarily tell anyone.
Instead he nods solemnly and sips his beer. What he’s not saying is saying more than words could. Are my reclaimed bachelor days numbered?
“Davis,” Vince starts, interrupting my thoughts.
I give him my attention, ready to hear whatever conclusion he’s come up with. Ready to face the mirror he’s about to hold up.
Instead of dispensing deep thoughts, he points at the annihilated food table. “Do you have any more of that cheese dip, or what?”
“You’re an asshole,” I tell him.
He laughs.
I love this guy.
Grace
Candace, another part-time bartender, Lars, and I are behind the bar at McGreevy’s, which makes for some cramped quarters. Candace and Lars are also working the floor thanks to a new-hire waitress who called in sick. We’re not only shorthanded, we’re slammed.
In restaurant terms that’s a nice way of saying we’re fucked.
After we get the dining room caught up and the patrons at the bar served, Lars tips his chin at me. “Cut?”
He wants to know if he can go home, and realistically, Candace and I should have no problem handling things from here. If Candace needs me to stick around a few hours because of another rush, I’ll do it.
“Stock the beer fridge and clear out these bus tubs.” I point at the dirty dishes that have collected throughout the evening. “And you’re free to go.”
Lars—big nose, wide jaw, and short stature—smiles and it’s the biggest I’ve ever seen. “Thanks. Have a date.”
“Congratulations.”
“Everyone has a date but me,” Candace grumbles as she splits us like bowling pins and marches into the dining room. Lars and I exchange surprised glances. I’m guessing he, like me, had no idea Candace was looking for a date. That’s ageist of us, isn’t it?
Lars piddles around for twenty minutes before he takes his tips and leaves. The dining room is starting to thin out. I’m relieved. I have one waitress, Tabby, working the floor, so Candace will be okay if I bail.
I’ve been here since noon so I’m past ready to go. And I’m hungry.
I’m pouring myself a cola from the soda gun at the bar and trying to decide what book I’ll read in the bathtub tonight when a deep, oddly familiar voice cuts into my rambling thoughts.
“Did you get the tea?”
I lift my chin and come face to face with hazel eyes. The man in front of me has a gray goatee matching his hair—shoulder-length hair sitting on the wide shoulders of a black leather biker jacket.
“Dad?” I freeze in place, overflowing the glass I was filling with cola. “Shit.”
I wipe the spill with a damp cloth, my motions jerky. What the hell is he doing here? The random gifts at my doorstep, yeah, okay. But showing up at my place of work? How did he know where to find me?
Mom. She’s the only way.
When my mom divorced him, Raphael Buchanan did a complete one-eighty. Gone were the suits and the Volvo. He bought a Harley. A few years later, he grew out his hair and beard—not quite as long as they are right now, but I remember not recognizing him at first back then.
“You okay, sweets?” Candace asks as she returns behind the bar with an armload of dishes. I give her a nod as she rests the dishes into an empty bus tub. Her eyes cut from me to my father, then she grins to beat all.
“Raf,” she says. “You’re a sight.”
“Hey, Candy,” he tells her. “You look like you belong here ’bout as much as I do.”
I’m not sure what’s happening. Candace knows my dad?
“Grace. Ain’t you gonna say nothin’?” he asks.
Ain’t. Nothin’. This man sounds nothing like the father I grew up with. The sharp-tongued lawyer who believed winning an argument was better than avoiding one.
“I haven’t seen you in eight years. What the hell do you expect me to say?” I bark.
“Is this…?” Candace takes a step closer to me. “Raf, is this your daughter?”
I cut a look to Candace, blinking in surprise.
“Your dad and I worked together,” she explains. “I didn’t know you were his.”
“I’m not his,” I snap, and Candace’s smile droops. He ceased being a part of my life when he vanished, only showing up to leave random gifts on my doorstep.
“Why are you here?” I snap at my dad. “Are you dying or something?”
“Yeah.” His already-pallid face goes more ashen as my stomach plummets to my toes. Candace touches me on the shoulder. “Sit down for a minute, Grace. I’ll buy you a drink and we can bury the hatchet.”
“I don’t have to do anything with you.” My voice is shaky. My hands too.
“I don’t have long to shuffle this mortal coil, Grace. Sit. Down.” His ain’t-you-gonna-say-nothin’ tone has shifted into the self-righteous one from the soundtrack of my childhood home.
I shake my head. This has to be a ploy. A desperate attempt to get my attention. Candace’s hand squeezes my shoulder. Unable to take condolences since I’m still processing, I brush her aside.
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