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It’s not Pete.
Hope’s tying an apron around her waist, her long hair pulled up in a ponytail, her expression set. “Sorry I’m late.”
“What are you doing?” I blink to be sure the stress isn’t making me hallucinate.
“I promised to help, didn’t I?” Hope turns to take a drink order, and I’m flooded with relief and a dangerous desire to kiss her again.
For the next two and a half hours, we work. The only break from the endless crush of people comes during the speeches, when Pete’s coworkers share some questionable stories about him.
Hope nudges me. “You think Pete’s retiring or being kindly pushed out.”
There are so many things I want to talk about other than Pete, but now’s not the time. “I’ve personally served him three drinks tonight, so I’m going to go with not-so-kindly being pushed out.”
She grimaces as the guests begin to clap. The man of the hour stands, his wife’s hand clutched in his, and says a few words about how much he’ll miss everyone. Clapping begins again, but Pete isn’t done. His voice is thick with emotion—and slurred—as he launches into very detailed apologies to his secretary, to the new hires, to everyone who he hurt.
Around the room, nervous giggles erupt, no one knowing whether to let Pete go on or stop him. Clearly Hope and I aren’t the only ones wondering where the idea for retirement sprang from. Pete finishes his speech and sits. For a moment, everyone sits in silence. Then the bandbegins to play. Around Pete’s table, people reach across to shake his hand. Others, not at Pete’s table, sit stone faced or exchanging furious whispers.
The lesson is clear enough, though. An apology isn’t always enough to repair the damage.
Every muscle in my body aches. I feel as if I just completed an Ironman competition rather than tended bar for four hours for a bunch of middle-aged accountants. Beside me, Hope massages her right shoulder, stretching her neck to the left and exposing the smooth line of her collarbone. Around us, busboys collect dishes and stack chairs in the corner of the room.
“Thank you for your help. I don’t think I would have been able to get that done without you.” I head toward one of the tables that has already been cleared of everything except a tablecloth stained with sauce and coffee. “I owe you.”
She trails me and falls into the seat at the opposite end of the table. No one has turned on the bright overhead lights, so the room is still lit only by the soft light leaking from the antique brass chandelier. “Let’s call it even.”
She glances at the table. The space in front of her is stained deep red. “Think we’d have been less busy if people didn’t spill all their drinks?”
“Yeah. Every time I saw Pete tip his glass, I cringed.”
She breathes a laugh and then rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. The silence between us stretches into uncomfortable territory.
“How was Maeve today?”
She narrows her eyes. “How’d you know I visited Maeve?”
“You have a leaf tangled in your hair.”
Her eyes widen, and she reaches up to her hair, finding the shredded parts of a leaf. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“It didn’t seem important. Besides, it gave you a little character.”
She shoots me an unreadable look. The tension between us snaps taut, and I’ve never been comfortable with the uncomfortable.
“So ... are we going to talk about it or just pretend it never happened?”
“Talk about what?” There’s something in her voice that makes my heart shudder.
“The other night.” My pulse ticks up; the memory sends my body temperature soaring. “That kiss.”
“What about it?” A flattering pink flushes up her cheek, as if her temperature is rising too. I’m more excited about the idea than I have any right to be.
“I feel awful about how I handled what you told me. And that Logan saw us ... I’m just ... God, with your ‘I’m sorry’ ban, you’re a really hard person to apologize to.”
Her mouth twitches up. I lean closer, drawn toward that small break in her hostility. A moth to a flame.
“You don’t have to apologize. You did nothing wrong.”
“You ran off. I’ve never seen anyone call an Uber so quickly. I was worried about you.”
