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"You got it."
I'm shaking as I slide open the cooler, pull out a bottle, and pop the top. Setting it on the bar in front of him, I pause to wipe my hands.
"Who sent them?" Bernice's raspy voice cuts over the radio that is playing some Steely Dan tune from 1980. Yacht rock is popular here at Lime and Salt. "That loverboy who was here the other night? The Hastings boy? He's pretty hot, kiddo. I saw those muscles. Like Jason Momoa. Mmm-mmm." Shegoes on to talk about how Jason is married to Lisa Bonet and a few details of their sex life that should probably be private.
"Dunno who they're from," I mumble, marveling at Bernice's knowledge of celebrity gossip.
Maybe they were sent by Lauren, my bestie. That's probably it. In one email a few weeks ago, she mentioned she was in London and taking a tour of some fancy hotel for her Instagram account. I'd responded with a sad and pathetic message about how shitty everything was here. That was pre-Damien.
Probably she wanted to cheer me up. That's it. But red roses aren't exactly Lauren's style...
Still trembling, I pluck the attached card out of the flowers and slide it out of the little envelope.
Meet me in room 501 at the Paradise Beach Resort when you're done with work tonight. Make sure you're prepared to stay over. — D.
P.S. No dogs.
I closethe bar in record time, telling the regulars I have to be somewhere important. Some, like Bernice, correctly suspect that I'm about to meet the mysterious man who sent the roses and shoot me knowing winks and grins and boozy thumbs-up signs.
I ignore everyone.
"Night!" I call out to the stragglers leaving on foot and bicycle. I leap up to clasp the roll-down, heavy-duty plastic tarp and lock it down with superhuman strength.
When I first saw the card and the invitation, I assumed I would go right from work to the resort. But as I'm locking up, I catch a whiff of my underarms. It's a mix of sweat and beer, with a twinge of cigarettes and seafood, since a customer had brought in some fried shrimp earlier in the day.
Ugh.Gross. No.
I race home and set the flowers on the kitchen table.
"How was the bar?" she asks, coming into the room. "Wow, those are pretty."
"Bar's good." I shed my hoodie, leaving it on the back of the kitchen chair. "And, yeah, aren't they gorgeous?"
"They from Damien?" She leans in to smell a rose.
"Yup." I grin.
"You headed somewhere?"
I pause in the doorway of the kitchen, and a pang of guilt washes over me. Mom's looking at me with those huge eyes. She's back to wearing her false eyelashes.
"I was, ah, going to hang with Damien tonight." I wince. "Is that okay? Or do you need help? I was going to take the car. But I can grab a ride if needed. Call an Uber."
Mom has been driving the past couple of days and has become increasingly mobile. She'd even gone out to lunch with a neighbor.
"No, honey. Go out. Have fun."
My shoulders sag. I'm the worst daughter in the world, choosing a hookup over being with Mom. She's six weeks post-surgery and the doctor says she's doing wonderfully. Still.
"Kate.Go. I'm okay. Beau from next door's supposed to bring some ice cream and help me work on this puzzle."
I frown. Beau is about sixty-five. A fit and comely sixty-five. I see him jogging and windsurfing almost daily, so props to him. Come to think of it, he does seem to stop by often. How did I not notice that he and Mom have a budding romance?
"Beau who lost his wife a few years ago?"
She nods and smiles. Then winks. Hunh. Mom's full of secrets.
"You sure you'll be okay with Beau?"
