to set up in her living room. The walls were covered with pictures of her children and new grandchildren, and a delicious scent was coming from the kitchen.
“What is that?” I asked. “It smells incredible.”
“Tamales,” she said. “My mother’s secret recipe. It’s my son’s birthday tomorrow.”
“Well, happy birthday to him,” I said.
“I will send you with some. For your date.”
I grinned as I began to unfold the heavy table.
“What makes you think I have a date?”
“You have sexy hair,” she said with a little giggle. “And the look of a woman in love.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve only just met him.”
“Well,” she said. “You have the look. I will make tamales for your wedding.”
I laughed. “Sounds perfect.”
When I’d laid out the sheets, I helped her up, easing her down slowly to a prone position. She was doing worse than last week; her joints were stiff and she winced with each move.
“How’s the pain today, June?”
Her wrinkled hand, still bearing the wedding ring from a man who’d died ten years ago, squeezed my forearm lightly.
“Better now that you’re here.”
It was easy to let my mind wander while I worked through June’s shoulders, neck, and lower back. Thoughts of Alec made my mouth water. I’d reread the texts he’d sent half a dozen times, and prepped like a girl going to the prom. Every time I thought about what might happen afterward, my body responded. I wanted him, more than I’d ever wanted anyone. The intensity of my desire frightened me a little. I was used to keeping men at a distance, emotionally if not physically, but the way Alec had invaded my mind with barely a touch already had me reeling.
I needed to turn the tables, get back on my feet. I planned to do that tonight. He thought I was in for a little payback? Game on. By the time I was done with him, he’d be wrapped around my finger.
*
I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, fixed my lipstick in the visor mirror, and walked inside.
I looked hot. I felt good.
Alec Flynn was mine.
The host was a stocky man in his fifties. He took me to a table for two where I had a clear view of the door. I ordered some of their homemade lemonade, waiting until Alec arrived to order a cocktail, and texted Amy to tell her I was at the restaurant.
Give him your panties under the table, she texted back. I saw that in a movie once. Totally sexy.
I laughed and sent her a Good night, then set my phone down.
The excitement turned to nerves as I finished my drink. I checked my phone. Fifteen minutes late. I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, tried to ignore that familiar feeling creeping up the back of my neck.
I’d practiced being alone in college, sitting in restaurants, movie theaters, allowing the panic to wash over me until all that remained was numbness. Now I could stand to wait, but not without some anxiety. And it increased with each minute that passed, each refill of my water glass, each time the server asked if there wasn’t something he could bring out while I waited.
Not coming.
He’s not coming.
He was coming. He was just running behind. He was into me; I hadn’t made it up. I read through the texts we’d sent each other earlier in the day, making sure the restaurant information and time had been delivered.
It had been delivered and received.
Twenty minutes passed.
Twenty-five.
I couldn’t help it. I was eight years old, sitting in a restaurant, waiting for her to come back. I told the manager she was coming, but he said he was calling someone anyway. It didn’t matter if it was twenty years ago or yesterday, abandonment felt the same.
My cell buzzed.
Something came up. Have to reschedule. Sorry for the late notice.
“Shit,” I said under my breath.
Seven
I didn’t text him back. Maybe it was petty, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t just him I was pissed at—it was me, too. I’d built him up too much in my head, set my expectations too high.
“What is that?” I asked. “It smells incredible.”
“Tamales,” she said. “My mother’s secret recipe. It’s my son’s birthday tomorrow.”
“Well, happy birthday to him,” I said.
“I will send you with some. For your date.”
I grinned as I began to unfold the heavy table.
“What makes you think I have a date?”
“You have sexy hair,” she said with a little giggle. “And the look of a woman in love.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve only just met him.”
“Well,” she said. “You have the look. I will make tamales for your wedding.”
I laughed. “Sounds perfect.”
When I’d laid out the sheets, I helped her up, easing her down slowly to a prone position. She was doing worse than last week; her joints were stiff and she winced with each move.
“How’s the pain today, June?”
Her wrinkled hand, still bearing the wedding ring from a man who’d died ten years ago, squeezed my forearm lightly.
“Better now that you’re here.”
It was easy to let my mind wander while I worked through June’s shoulders, neck, and lower back. Thoughts of Alec made my mouth water. I’d reread the texts he’d sent half a dozen times, and prepped like a girl going to the prom. Every time I thought about what might happen afterward, my body responded. I wanted him, more than I’d ever wanted anyone. The intensity of my desire frightened me a little. I was used to keeping men at a distance, emotionally if not physically, but the way Alec had invaded my mind with barely a touch already had me reeling.
I needed to turn the tables, get back on my feet. I planned to do that tonight. He thought I was in for a little payback? Game on. By the time I was done with him, he’d be wrapped around my finger.
*
I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, fixed my lipstick in the visor mirror, and walked inside.
I looked hot. I felt good.
Alec Flynn was mine.
The host was a stocky man in his fifties. He took me to a table for two where I had a clear view of the door. I ordered some of their homemade lemonade, waiting until Alec arrived to order a cocktail, and texted Amy to tell her I was at the restaurant.
Give him your panties under the table, she texted back. I saw that in a movie once. Totally sexy.
I laughed and sent her a Good night, then set my phone down.
The excitement turned to nerves as I finished my drink. I checked my phone. Fifteen minutes late. I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, tried to ignore that familiar feeling creeping up the back of my neck.
I’d practiced being alone in college, sitting in restaurants, movie theaters, allowing the panic to wash over me until all that remained was numbness. Now I could stand to wait, but not without some anxiety. And it increased with each minute that passed, each refill of my water glass, each time the server asked if there wasn’t something he could bring out while I waited.
Not coming.
He’s not coming.
He was coming. He was just running behind. He was into me; I hadn’t made it up. I read through the texts we’d sent each other earlier in the day, making sure the restaurant information and time had been delivered.
It had been delivered and received.
Twenty minutes passed.
Twenty-five.
I couldn’t help it. I was eight years old, sitting in a restaurant, waiting for her to come back. I told the manager she was coming, but he said he was calling someone anyway. It didn’t matter if it was twenty years ago or yesterday, abandonment felt the same.
My cell buzzed.
Something came up. Have to reschedule. Sorry for the late notice.
“Shit,” I said under my breath.
Seven
I didn’t text him back. Maybe it was petty, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t just him I was pissed at—it was me, too. I’d built him up too much in my head, set my expectations too high.
Similar Books
