Page 26 of The Beat Match

Annie: Noted. And if you don’t mind, please don’t tell Wes about the date or the DJing stuff. I can’t deal with his meddling.

Duncan: Only if you promise to talk with him about work.

Annie: Deal. I’ll keep you posted.

She’d tell Wes about her piano lessons and DJing once she’d achieved a measure of success, when he wouldn’t call her Squirrel and tell her she was wasting her time. Until then she’d take a breather from him before checking on his work stress. Force all naughty Wes thoughts from her mind. She’d focus on her DJ lessons and try to figure out why Falcon had left her in the lurch. She’d do her best to forget Leo’s July 27th anniversary was just five days away.

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9

Weston stood outside Imogen’s, his hands shoved into his pants pockets. The bar’s exterior was as shabby as the day he’d dropped Annie off for her first shift. A homeless man was asleep down the alley; drunk girls sang as they stumbled across the street, elbows linked. In his dress shirt and slacks, he probably looked as out of place as a tin man in the Sahara.

He checked his watch again. Only six minutes had passed. Annie’s Monday shifts usually ended at midnight. Twenty minutes from now.

He shouldn’t be anywhere near her, not since that kiss five days ago. He’d heard from her twice since that night. Two succinct texts. One to say she’d dropped Felix off with his secretary, and one to tell him she was working and couldn’t hang out as they usually did on July 27th. She hadn’t admitted she'd neglected her rabbit-sitting duties. No mentioned of her date or Falcon, the club, any of it. He’d played dumb while remembering every flick of her tongue, the tight press of her body against his. He’d avoided communication after that. A self-imposed restraining order.

Until today.

He’d texted her several times, had left voice messages. She hadn’t replied once. So here he was. The last place he should be. He had no choice on the anniversary of Leo’s death.

Pushing thoughts of that kiss from his mind, he snuck a bill into the homeless man’s cup, a habit he’d picked up from Annie. People living on the street made him picture her and Leo like this, just kids, dirty and begging for food. It had made him realize the homeless were real people with real lives and real problems, who’d been knocked on their asses one too many times.

And look where Annie was today.

Inhaling that hit of pride, he walked into the bar. It was busy for a Monday. Not too packed to spot Annie. She wasn’t wearing those insane red thigh-high boots or a sequined top, but she looked breathtaking in skinny jeans, heels, and a slim turquoise striped tank. She was a chameleon these days, creative and playful with her daytime vintage clothes, dressing seductively at work and clubs. His body stirred, the remembered feel of her hips against his flooding his veins. He fisted his hands.

She laughed at something a customer said, then glanced over. Her smile faltered.

They both knew why he was there.

She waved at him and grinned widely. Typical Annie, putting on a brave front. He always let her do it, didn’t want to bring up upsetting subjects.

He met her by the bar. “Hey there, Squirrel.”

“This is a surprise, Herbert.” Another exaggerated grin. “You here for a drink?”

This close to her he saw a red mark on her cheek, a remnant of their kiss, and possessiveness washed through him, the desire to tell her who she’d kissed, have an encore performance. He cleared his throat. “No, thanks. I’m here for you.”

She blushed, the sudden color unexpected. Like she felt the same intoxicating pull. “I might be a while,” she said quickly. “This rush started late.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Or we can chat another day.”

“Or I can wait.”

They stared at each other. She looked away first, mumbled, “Suit yourself.”

An hour later Annie held up her finger, signaling she’d only be another minute. She disappeared through a staff door and reappeared with her purse. “Must be important if you waited this long.”

He worked his jaw, debated how to play this. Avoiding the topic of Leo was how they rolled. He respected her privacy, and he had his own reasons for letting those memories lie. But they’d spent every July 27th together. They’d eat pizza or Chinese takeout. He’d watch a movie while she’d scrapbook. He’d tease her for quitting her Sudoku puzzles halfway through. They let each other grieve in their own ways.

Today she’d avoided him.

He stood from his stool. “There’s a late-night dive a couple blocks down. Come for a drink with me.”

She tucked her purse closer, chewed her lip. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”