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I smack her playfully on the arm with the card in my hand. “Shhh. Someone will hear you,” I warn her.
We don’t have many customers through the door yet—it’s still early—but I don’t want anyone to get wind of the fact that Brenner Reindhart has been at the bar. I shiver at the thought of paparazzi casing the place.
“You going to see him again?”
I shake my head. “Don’t think so. They’re gone. Besides, even if he were still here, we can’t go a day without one of us picking a fight. It wouldn’t work out.”
“That’s too bad,” Ileana says. “It seemed like you really liked him.”
We set the flowers in one of the tables at the center of the lobby where anyone at the bar can appreciate them.
After the bar closes and I’m getting ready for bed, I receive a text from an unknown number.
Unknown:Did you get my flowers?
Me:How did you get my number?
I save Bren’s number under my contacts and mask his name in the most delicious way. I chuckle when his next text comes through.
Tonto:I have my ways.
Me:They’re beautiful. I have a few suggestions on where you can shove them.
Tonto:I meant it, Sofia. We need to stop picking stupid fights. I want a chance. A real chance.
Me:What’s the point? You’re touring, and I’m bound to KC by my business.
Tonto:I’ll find a way to work it out.
Me:You never showed this week.
Tonto:I was angry. I’m sorry. I was in a foul mood, and I think it’s because I was there without you in your city.
Me:No point in talking about the past. I’m sorry. I’ve moved on. You should too.
Tonto:What?! Moved on? What do you mean?
I need to stop engaging him in conversation and vow that was my last text to Bren.
Tonto:Sofia?
Tonto:What do you mean you’ve moved on?
Tonto:Sofia! Answer me, please.
* * *
There are no moretexts from Bren after that. The following day is a busy one at the bar, and I hear not another word from Bren, so I start to relax and won’t allow myself to admit I’m disappointed I will never see him again. Ileana is doing a great job of keeping the flowers alive, trimming their stems, and changing the water. I’m glad someone is because if they were in my apartment, I’d let those roses die a slow, painful death.
I’m exhausted by closing time, and I leave Joe to finish up closing procedures. Once I get home, I jump straight into the shower because—I realize after I catch a whiff of myself—I badly need one.
The shampoo is barely rinsed out of my hair when I jump at the sound of loud knocking on my door. I shut the water off, wrap myself in a towel, and hurry to the door, worried it’s Ileana or Joe and something happened at the bar. But when I look through the peephole, I find a murderous-looking Bren instead.
Clinging to my towel so it will stay in place, I open the door.
“Bren?”
“Moved on?” he says, his eyes dark with fury. Then he takes a step forward, but I don’t budge. He isn’t going to intimidate me.
