“Sure I am.”
“You might marry him someday.”
“Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ve only known the guy for a few months.”
I laughed.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“It’s been a year,” I said.
Spike raised an eyebrow at me. “Wow,” he said. “Who needs calendars?”
I smiled. Spike smiled back. Rosie put a paw on my knee, and I felt the way I always did when I was with the two of them—like everything was going to be all right. “Maybe I just need to get used to the smell of coconut oil,” I said.
“Yep.”
“And if not, there’s no reason why Richie and I can’t remarry and maintain two residences.”
“That’s right,” Spike said. “Just do me a favor. Let me know as soon as you get officially engaged.”
“Why?”
“Takes a long time to have a tux made properly,” he said. “When you’re a man of my proportions.”
I grinned. “Deal.”
—
As soon as I went back to my salad, my phone rang. Blake’s name was on my screen. “What now?” I whispered. It had been an especially busy morning, with two client meetings, plus a very lengthy Zoom call with a potential client, a Beacon Hill attorney who loved to phrase and rephrase questions, as though I were a hostile witness. Reluctantly, I answered the phone.
“Sunny?” Blake’s voice had a strange tone to it. Like someone was holding a gun to his head.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“A lady came in to see you about ten minutes ago,” he said. “I told her you were out and couldn’t be disturbed, but she wouldn’t listen and…I don’t know…She was pretty unhinged and I…I may have said something about Spike’s.”
I was about to ask Blake if this unhinged lady had told him her name, when an audiobook-ready voice bellowed,“Sunny.”I realized I didn’t need to.
“She’s here,” I told Blake.
“Oh, man,” he said. “That was fast. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I know her.”
She was making a beeline for our table. I said goodbye to Blake and ended the call so I could give my complete attention to the woman who demanded it.
Melanie Joan Hall. Bestselling author. Longtime friend of mine. World-class diva. She wore a black linen pantsuit, a broad-brimmed black hat, enormous Prada sunglasses, and the general attitude of an incoming missile.
Spike stood up and gave her a smile. “Melanie Jo—”
“Don’t say my name.” She leaned in close. “I need to talk with you both. In private.”
Two
