Page 31 of Spiced!

I blinked rapidly at Gerald, hoping he would send help.

He didn’t even turn my way.

Bastard succulent.

“Brendan.”

“I may have left my number on the bill,” I said.

Tasha went quiet for a moment, which was her version of containing a reaction. It was the deliberate pause of a medical professional who had powerful feelings and had long ago use thislearned to introduce a gap between her feelings and the expression of them in order to seduce her prey into a state of vulnerability before pouncing with fangs bared. I’d heard her talk about this approach with difficult dental patients for years.

“You left your number?” she asked, as though she hadn’t heard me the first time . . . and examined my answer . . . and catalogued it for future use.

“On the back of the bill . . . with a note.”

“What did the note say?”

I looked at the ceiling, let out a long breath, and recited (because, yes, I’d memorized it), “For personal use only. Not for puppy emergencies.”

The sound Tasha made was small and high and extremely un-dentist-like. “Oh, that’s good.”

“It’s a note, Tasha. It’s barely even a note. It’s just a few words on a bill.”

“That’s a very good note, Brendan. That’s a note from a man who thought about what he was going to write. You put effort into it, and I’m not talking about the hip-thrust effort he puts into his act.”

“Tash!” I held the phone away for a second and tried to wipe the image of Adrian thrusting from my mind.

“He’s a go-go dancer.” She snorted. “His feet think faster than most people’s brains. Did he use said number?” I heard her moving around her kitchen, the familiar background sounds of a Sunday morning at Tasha’s, which always involved NPR and something being chopped.

"Yeah, he did."

She let out an unladylike squeal. "And? What did he say? How did you respond. Spill it before I drive over there."

“He said he wasn’t texting about a puppy emergency.”

“And?”

“We talked about how I left before I could speak with him in person.”

A longer pause this time.

“I love him already,” she said.

“You’ve never met him.”

“I love him anyway. A man who will debate the ethics of ferret kleptomania with a person he’s interested in through a barback during a go-go performance is a man worth knowing.” She resumed chopping. “When are you going back?”

“Wait. Rewind. None of that was in the note. How did you know—?”

“Brendan, baby doll, how could you doubt the power of my information network? I’m like the Spider in Game of Thrones. I don’t ask questions because I want answers. I ask so you can confirm what I already know.”

“Dear God, you are the CIA.”

“More like the FBI. CIA isn’t allowed to operate on domestic soil.”

I let my head fall to the counter.

“So, out with it. When are you seeing him again? I already know you have a plan. You plan your trips to the bathroom.”