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I keepwatch for Rowan as the days go by, blending into weeks, until it’s a full month and a couple of days since I last saw him. I’ve spotted his car a couple of times, crawling past the gallery. I thought I spotted him on-foot a few times, too, but I’m not certain. Then, there were the two mornings when a mystery messenger left a coffee and a pastry for me at reception. No note. And none of the gallery girls saw who left it, either, but I have more than a suspicion. After all, it was a pain-au-chocolat and a strong espresso, weakened with just a little water—the way I like it.
“You’re sure it wasn’t Rowan?” I grill Georgie, after receiving my third mystery breakfast. The other two deliveries didn’t have the ‘Brass Whistle’ branding, and I could taste the difference, but this morning’s offering definitely came from here. And this one had a strange note:I’m closer than you think.
Georgie nods, shouting above the scream of the milk frother. “Was just some guy. Ain’t seen him before. Shifty, like. Couldn’t get outta here quick enough—thought he had the fuzz chasin’ him, the way he was sweatin’ and shufflin’. I swear to you, I thought I was gonna need a bucket of hand sanitizer when I took his cash off him; the note was soaked through.”
“And he’s the only one who bought a pain-au-chocolat and a coffee, the way I like it?”
Georgie bangs the steel milk jug on the counter, settling the froth. “Girl, I keep tellin’ you—I only serve coffee two ways. With milk or without. You ain’t special.” She flashes me a sly wink, as she deftly pours the milk into a cappuccino mug for the elderly man at the back of the café. He comes in every day around the same time as me, regular as clockwork, but neither I nor Georgie know his name.
“You’ll be telling me my money’s no good here soon,” I joke, puzzled by what I’ve just heard.
It doesn’t seem like a Rowan thing to do, to send someone else to fetch breakfast for me. Then again, now that I’m thinking about it, the whole “mysterious package” thing doesn’t seem like a Rowan thing to do, either. Unless, he thinks that leaving breakfast without a note isn’t going to spook me? Is that why he’s doing it this way?
I should text him,I consider.Get it straight from the horse’s mouth.
“If the guy comes in again, can you do some interrogating for me?” I ask Georgie as I check the time. I need to get moving.
Georgie nods. “Sure can. Be happy to flex my pryin’ muscles, though only on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You owe me a night out. I let you off the hook that other Friday, for good reason, but if you don’t swear it right here and now on my blessed pastries and hallowed ground beans that you’re going to come out with me on Friday, I’ll keep these pretty lips sealed if that hot mess comes perspirin’ in here again.”
I’ve been avoiding more than just the memory of Rowan’s kiss over the past month. I’ve been avoiding anything that involves alcohol or socializing, in case I run into him again—or worse, send a drunken text that I won’t be able to snatch back from the digital ether. My heart thinks it’s penance for betraying my marriage vows, spending twenty-eight days in near isolation, aside from work and that one lunch at Lyndsey’s. My head thinks of it as an emotional bunker, protecting me from a second nuclear fallout, if I should find myself… attached again.
I nod, feigning reluctance. “Fine, but it can’t be this coming Friday.”
“And why the hell not?” She eyeballs me, eyebrow raised. “You givin’ this Rowan guy a shot?”
“No, I’ve got a party to go to.”
“A party? And I’m not invited?” Georgie scoffs, clasping a hand to her chest. “Just when I think you can’t wound me any deeper, you go and shun me like that.”
I smile. “You wouldn’t want to come.”
“You kiddin’? I’m always game for a party.”
“It’s at the DuCates.” The word sticks in my throat, loaded with memory. “It’s their annual ‘Summer’s Here!’ soirée, though it’s kind of a two-birds-one-stone situation. Grace has been begging me and Lyndsey to take her up to see Ms. T, so we’re making a long weekend of it.”
Georgie’s brow creases into a deep frown. “They throw a party just for you? Ain’t these the folks who used to hate you?”
“As in, theseasonof summer,” I reply, waiting for the penny to drop. “And they don’t hate me anymore. Cybil doesn’t, anyway. Benjamin—I don’t think he much likes anyone, truth be told, but he’s civil enough.”
Georgie bursts out laughing, almost spilling the contents of the cappuccino she just made. “Damn, IthoughtI couldn’t be hearin’ things right. You’re a fine woman, Summer, don’t get me wrong, but you ain’t exactly the kind who likes bein’ center of attention. It’s why you and me get on like butter and jam—we complement, but you ain’t tryin’ to steal my limelight.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I grin and get up off the stool, making to leave. “But the Friday after I’m back, I’m all yours.”
She mock salutes. “You know where to find me.” I’m almost at the café door, when she calls out, “Oh, Summer, one more thing—”
“You want me to pull some strings atAliceagain?” I flash her a knowing smile. It’s an underground Speakeasy-style bar, hidden down an alley, inside a fake bodega, where you enter through a secret door behind the refrigerators. Invite-only. And it just happens to be owned by my good friend, Laurent St. James.
“Well, obviously,” Georgie retorts, “but that’s not what I was goin’ to say. Although, that’s now theonlything I can think about.”
I open the café door and laugh. “I’ll get us in.”
“Summer, I’m serious here,” Georgiesoundsserious, and the unnatural tone makes me freeze. “I’m not one to ever tell you this, and I know it’s probably a bit too late if it’s happened three times already, but if there’s a mystery box of mine and a coffee waitin’ at your gallery again, do me a favor—don’t touch it.”
