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“Sent.”
My head rolls back as I close my eyes and hope she didn’t just do what I think she did.
My phone pings, and I hear her whistle as her feet keep on dancing.
“You have a date with him next week. Thursdays are best, right?” she says without a care in the world.
I lower my gaze to her and ask, “Did you really just text Eric back and say that I’d go on a date with him?”
She nods with the fierce smirk of a mischievous kid. “Yes! He replied rather quickly, I might add. You’re welcome. Don’t forget to name your firstborn after me. What’s his last name?”
“Hollenford.”
“Tara Hollenford,” she states dreamily. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“You should date him then.”
“Nope. He’s your future husband. I’m not in the market to take another woman’s man. I’m not Maisie,” she jokes, referring to the woman who stole Melissa’s husband years ago.
“No one wants to be a Maisie,” I remark.
“I have an idea. Let’s go online and post on Yelp that her salon is doing free haircuts for the next week,” she suggests with that devilish look still on her face.
“No, Tara.”
Her shoulders fall as her mouth frowns. “Can we at least send a dozen pizzas to the house with crude words written in pepperoni?”
I laugh while trying to keep a straight face. “You’re trouble.”
She perks up and lifts her glass. “Why, thank you!”
We clink, and then I take my phone, along with hers, away from her.
She grimaces yet declares, “We need more wine. For you. Not me. I’m driving. You are not. So, drink!”
The woman cannot be trusted.
twelve
WHEN DINNER IS OVER, we step out of Le Amoureux and stand on the sidewalk on Main Street. Tara is parked on the street, so I walk her to her sleek sports car. My house is within walking distance, so I’ll be going home on foot. Good thing because I had two glasses of wine too many and am a tiny bit tipsy.
As we say our good-byes, something behind me catches Tara’s eye. “There’s your kid.”
I spin around to see Ainsley—wearing the flower dress, pink tights, and denim jacket she picked out for her special date with Luke—strolling down the street. Beside her is the handsome man who picked her up, wearing a black leather jacket and a brooding smile.
Tara grips my arm. “You didn’t explain how cute your new babysitter was. Is he single? What’s his deal? Would he be a good candidate for me? I usually go for the civil servant types. Cops, teachers, military guys. I like them rough and rugged.”
“Luke happens to be a fireman,” I state and watch her doe eyes bulge out of their sockets, practically landing on the concrete. “He’s not available.”
“Taken,” she grumbles as she takes out a piece of gum and shoves it into her mouth. “All the good ones are. How do you know him?”
She’s putting on her lipstick as I explain with a sigh, “We met five years ago in Aruba and reconnected in Walden.”
“And you let him take her out? You had to know me a year before I had the privilege.”
“That’s because you’re trouble. Luke’s … a different kind of trouble.”
“Interesting.” The word is long and drawn out.
