Page 95 of Run to Me

I shush her, my gaze darting around to confirm no one overheard, and lower my voice to a whisper-yell. “Keep your voice down. Geez. I never lied, and my number doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m not the liberated woman you think I am.”

Lucy, witnessing our exchange with keen interest, lifts a sleepy Marcella from the highchair and cradles her, patting her on the butt. How nice would it be to check out of this conversation and take a nap?

Tatum argues, “It matters, Maiz. Since the day we met, I’ve shared every detail of my life with you because you’re my best friend. And best friends tell each other everything.” Her voice thickens, a sign she’s on the verge of crying.

“Please don’t cry in a restaurant,” I beg, grabbing her hand. Public displays of emotion, affection, or otherwise make me extremely uncomfortable.

Wiping her nose with a napkin, she corrects me. “It’s a café.”

“Whatever. Just please don’t cry. I’ll let you ask one question, anything you want, if you bring back happy Tate.”

“Anything?” She perks up, the swift uptick in her mood both a relief and warning bell.

I concede, my shoulders slumping. “Sure. Anything.”

She leans across the table and whispers, “Has anything else happened with you know who? Did you talk everything through? Are you together now?”

“‘You know who’ is Jensen,” I inform Lucy. Might as well get all the knowledge in the open if we’re planning to make this ladies lunch thing official. Answering Tatum, I say, “That was three questions. And yes.”

“Yes to which one?”

“Take your pick.”

Her face lights up, eager for explicit details. When she realizes those details are not forthcoming, she scrunches her nose, and her woeful tone drips with disappointment. “You’re no fun.”

“You know what is fun? Whatever involves rope and lube.” Tilting my head at Lucy, I arch an eyebrow and ask, “Care to share?”

She smirks, her eyes twinkling as she relaxes into her chair with Marcella napping in her arms. “Sharing goes both ways at this table, like an information exchange. Tate pays with behind-the-scenes stories of her tours. What’s your currency?”

Oh, I like Lucy. She’s got sass, wit, and confidence, three of my favorite female personality traits. I’m already looking forward to the next lunch date with these two.

Highly interested in learning more about the juicy education she’s giving Tatum, I return Lucy’s sly smile. “I can pay in beauty tips and services. Count me in.”

32

JENSEN

Walford’s annual May festival is a disaster. For me, anyway. I woke up this morning, refreshed and optimistic about the day after dropping a kiss on Maisy’s forehead while she slept. That optimism was dashed when I arrived at the bar to discover I forgot to order disposable cups.

Thankfully, Ainsley showed up early too, so I sent her to the store to buy every cup she could get her hands on. I would rather have too many than not enough. If Bruno’s serves beer in cheap plastic cups for the next month, so be it.

The second problem I encounter today is the emptying of the first keg. Beer drinkers of Walford and the surrounding area arrived in full force. It’s not even lunchtime, and we’ve already tapped an entire keg. That would be fine except, when I ordered inventory the other day, I didn’t consider the Friday night crowd. Long story short, I didn’t order enough beer for the festival.

Charlie, who’s flustered with his glasses sliding halfway down his sweaty nose, pours beer from cans as quickly as I free them from the cases and crack them open. My nerves are shot. I try to tune everything out and focus on pulling beers and popping tabs, but everyone who walks by demands my attention.

Brody stops by with Danny Foster at his side. The video camera Danny carries everywhere is aimed at me.

“Not now!” I snap, causing him to jerk back and fumble with the camera.

Danny’s cheeks turn scarlet, and Brody puts himself between us in a protective stance, as if I might hurt the kid. I regret directing the anger I have with myself at Danny, but I prefer not to be captured on film when I’m frazzled.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brody asks, his tone filled with disgust at my behavior.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just leave us to it.”

He casts a questioning glance at Charlie—the poor guy looks ready to crawl under the nearest table and cry—then another at Ainsley. Because my employees are unwilling to talk about me while I’m present, no words are exchanged. Brody throws an arm over Danny’s shoulders and guides him away. I’ll try to figure out how those two became buddies another day. Now’s not the time to worry about other people.

“Where the fuck is Javi?” I say, aiming the question at no one in particular as my jaw clenches.