Frayed (Connections, #4)(18)

“Next time we come, you have to try the apple. It’s just as good. I promise.”

Twirling her spoon in her coffee and staring in her cup, she asks, “Who’s Ruby?”

“She’s a waitress here I met last summer. I helped her out with a few things and we got close.”

“So she was your girlfriend?”

I raise my eyebrows. “No, she’s dating my buddy now. I introduced them.”

“Oh,” she says, and I notice she hasn’t looked up from her cup yet.

Hmm . . . she’s not jealous, is she?

I feel the need to explain further.

But then she looks up with a raised brow and says, “I would never have pegged you for a matchmaker.”

I shrug and grin back at her.

Her cell phone rings and she takes it from her purse. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

I nod.

“Hello,” she answers. “No, I didn’t forget about it. I’m going to drop it off tomorrow.”

There’s a pause and her whole body tenses. “Okay, I’ll meet her first thing in the morning.”

Another pause and her eyebrows scrunch. “I didn’t know she wanted to see it first. I’m sorry.”

Without a good-bye she presses END on her phone.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She nods and I swear I see tears welling in her eyes. “That was Tate. We miscommunicated about the bride approving her cake topper for her wedding tomorrow.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Did he hang up on you?”

She lowers her gaze. “He was done talking.”

Exasperation clear in my voice, I ask, “Why are you still working for that *?”

“He’s not that bad. And not only do I need the experience, but the connections I’m making are invaluable. My plan is to quit by the end of the year.”

“At least you have a plan that includes dumping him.”

She looks a little forlorn and rests her elbows on the table with her chin in her hands. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you quit your job this summer?” she asks me.

I sit forward and reach across the table for her hands. “Are you serious? That job was never for me.”

She giggles. “I was very surprised when you told me you were the wedding columnist for the LA Times.”

“I hated every f*cking minute of it, but like I told you, I was in a bad place. I needed money and wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t realize staying at that job was only adding to my unhappiness.”

She sips her coffee as a couple of minutes of silence pass between us—and with all that cream in it, by now it must be cold.

“So, how did you end up acquiring both Surfer’s End and Sound Music?”

“Ah, now, that’s a story. . . .”

Time rushes by as I open up to her in a way I haven’t opened up to anyone in a very long time. I tell her about my time in Australia—which led to my freelance gig for Surfer’s End magazine and my eventual takeover of it once I had the money. I explain to her why I finally wrote the piece about the drug cartel that I had investigated—because people deserved to know. I even tell her about training Trent before he went off to college in Hawaii with hopes to compete in surf competitions.

The large silver-rimmed clock on the wall has ticked past two a.m. when I notice her glance up at it.

“Hey.” I point to the watch I gave her. “Doesn’t that work?”

She glances down at it. “No. It’s stuck on seven o’clock.”

“Is the battery dead?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. It just stopped working, but I can’t stand not having it on my wrist.”

Cocking my head to one side with a bemused expression, I find I have no words.

“Closing time.” The waitress slides the bill across the table.

S’belle grabs for it.

“I got it.”

“No, really, let me pay my share.”

“Um . . . really, I got it.”

She tosses her napkin on the table. “Thank you.”

“Not taking that one?” I point to the frayed white cloth near the pie plate.

She stands and pushes her hand against my chest. “No, it’s not monogrammed.”

Playfulness. Physical contact. Heat, lust, want, and need—all bundled into that one innocent touch. I drop my gaze to where her palm rests, but this time before I can grab her hand to lead her out the door, she pulls it away.

I toss a twenty on the table and walk backward toward the exit. “I got your number now. A discriminating thief.”

“I didn’t steal them. I borrowed them to clean up my car because I couldn’t find any towels. I told you I’m going to return them.”

I open the door and let her pass. She takes the lead and I catch up. I make air quotes as I say, “Discriminating borrower.”

A frown forms on her lips.

“I’m just screwing with you.”

“I know,” she says, but I can see a sadness dwelling in her eyes.

The walk back to her car is short. She unlocks her door as soon as we arrive. When I open her door, she hurries to get in.

“Red . . .”