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“How about you let me have my lunch with my friend?” I reply, an edge to my tone so sharp, she might just bleed from it.
Cici flinches, and that makes me happy.
There’s the asshole I love and adore.
“You’re going to have to move away from the chair so I can sit down,” I say, and she manages to look hurt and offended as she steps to the side.
I settle into the chair, scoot in, and pick up my sandwich. “Hey, Tillie.”
She merely stares at me, and for the first time in months, I have the urge to laugh. Like the genuine welling up of amusement that must be let out. I don’t, though, and manage to stun her further, but my next words aren’t for her benefit. “You’re looking very pretty today. I love your outfit.”
Tilden looks down at her clothing, back up to me, and blinks.
I do believe I’ve managed to stun her speechless, and it makes me gleeful.
Cici and her cohorts stand there staring, and now it’s becoming awkward. I stare pointedly at them. “Do you ladies mind giving us some privacy?”
They huff and look doubly offended, but they grab their purses and cosmos that the bartender must have set down while all this was happening, and move to the other end of the bar.
My head turns back to look at the woman sitting across from me.
Tilden Marshall.
My nemesis.
No longer looking befuddled, she glares at me. “What the hell was that?”
I glance back at the women, throwing a thumb their way. “Them? Looks like petty bullies who needed to be put in their place.”
“Yeah, I get that part. But what’s with the wholesitting down with my friend? We are not friends.”
“No, we are not,” I agree.
She frowns slightly. “And you’re… you’re… Coen Highsmith?”
“That I am,” I mutter, not with any amount of pride.
A moment of silence drags on before she asks hesitantly, “Okay… who is Coen Highsmith?”
No stopping the snort, but I do put a halt to a full-out laugh. Grinning, I set my sandwich down and pick up a chip. “Fuck, it’s refreshing not being recognized.”
She still stares at me.
“I’m a hockey player. I play for the Titans.” Awareness transforms her face into a mask of sympathy. “Or rather, I used to play for them.”
“The plane crash,” she breathes out. “I mean… I don’t watch hockey, or any sports, for that matter, but I did know about the crash. I saw it on the news.”
I don’t want to talk about it with her. In fact, I don’t want to talk about anything with her. We’re not friends.
“When are you going to clean up my yard?”
Her lips press into a flat line, and she closes her sketchbook. “I’m going there now, as a matter of fact.”
“Good,” I reply, popping the chip in my mouth and chewing. When I swallow, I add, “I’d hate to call the police on you.”
She ignores that last statement, instead sliding her pad into her purse and pulling out cash she then throws on the table.
When she stands, I grin up at her. “Oh, and there’s bird shit all over my deck. That will need scrubbed.”
