Well Played (Well Met #2)(46)

The path to our tavern was like the road home. Our volunteers were waiting for us, and had already done most of the work of setting up for the day. Emily and I pitched in, putting the wine bottles in ice and making sure the beer coolers were stocked up. But soon Emily put her hands on her hips and frowned.

“Those tables aren’t right . . .” she said under her breath. This was her third summer here, and her third summer with this obsession: figuring out the right configuration of tables, stools, and benches that would look the most inviting and would persuade patrons to linger and get that second drink. It was all about selling refreshments, which raised more money.

“Em, it’s fine.” Jamie, one of our head volunteers, had gotten used to Emily’s trying to change things around, even though he’d been with us almost as long as I had and knew more about running the tavern than probably all of us put together. But he tolerated her ideas with good-natured patience. Because what did it hurt, really, if Emily wanted to move a few tables around? The girl was getting married in a week. She probably had some nervous energy to burn off.

And what better place to burn off energy than outside, under the trees and bright midsummer sunshine of a Renaissance faire? There was plenty to do to keep us both distracted. We pitched in with the volunteers, serving beer and wine. We flirted with patrons and counted it as a victory when we could elicit a blush. We strolled the dusty lanes together, stopping to take in parts of shows, cheering loudly for each one and helping draw patrons in when we happened upon a show that was about to start. Last summer Emily and I had transitioned from being strictly tavern wenches—glorified bartenders in uncomfortable costumes—to serving as local color. And being local color was fun, in a way that being an overworked bartender was not.

While we stopped off more than once at the human chess match—Simon’s domain—so that Emily could visit her fiancé, we gave a wide berth to the Marlowe Stage, where the Dueling Kilts were set up. In fact, Emily made a point of shooting a squinty side-eye in the direction of their stage, and I suddenly became very interested in the trees on the other side of the lane. I didn’t want to see the Dueling Kilts play. I didn’t want to see Dex, and I sure didn’t want to see Daniel.

But the universe didn’t care about that. Later that day, while I took the long way around on my way to the front stage and the first pub sing of the year, I ran almost smack into Daniel, coming from the opposite direction, away from pub sing.

For a couple heartbeats we just stared at each other, a little startled. “Sorry . . .” I started to say.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you like pub sing, so I was . . .” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where the banners at the front gate were visible.

“You were avoiding pub sing.” I nodded. “Avoiding me.”

“Not avoiding. Giving you space.” He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller, to take up less of said space. “Sorry,” he said again.

I wanted to sigh a huge sigh, but I was still strapped into a corset, and this time of year sighs were something that happened after hours. Was this how all this was going to go? I couldn’t do four weeks of the both of us skulking around, hoping to avoid each other.

“C’mere.” I hooked a hand around Daniel’s arm and pulled him back the way I’d come, down the lane and against the flow of traffic. There weren’t any more shows happening on this side of Faire, and the day was almost over, so there was only a trickle of patrons around us.

He followed me without complaint, and I ducked into an almost-alcove made up of a small grouping of young trees. He took a deep breath when I turned to face him. “Listen . . .”

But I wasn’t going to let him speak. It was my turn. “No, you listen.” I tightened my grip on his arm, and he made no attempt to pull free. He raised his eyebrows in a question, and I had trouble forming words. How dare he look so damned sincere, after everything I’d learned about him. How dare his eyes look so welcoming. How dare I want to forgive absolutely everything and start over again with him.

“Tell me something,” I finally said, stepping closer to him, as though I wanted to tell him a secret. Screw personal space. It didn’t apply right now.

“Anything.” He shifted his weight forward, bringing himself even closer. This close, I could see a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, and I idly hoped that he wore enough sunscreen.

But I forced myself back on topic. “Why did you do it? Why did you lie about who you were?”

He seemed to expect this question. “You were happy,” he said simply. “And I wanted you to stay that way.” He shrugged, his expression helpless. “I knew you didn’t want me, not really, but if I could keep talking to you and keep you happy . . .” He trailed off with another shrug.

Damn. That was a pretty good answer. I forced my brain back on task. “Was it . . .” I cleared my throat. It was hard to speak with his eyes looking all green at me like that. “Was that the only lie? Or was it all . . . ?” I couldn’t finish that sentence. The thought of everything he said being fake was too much to contemplate. I tried one more time. “Was any of it real? The words, I mean. Did Dex tell you to say those things, or . . . ?”

“No.” His eyes sharpened, chips of glass instead of green fire. “Dex had nothing to do with anything I ever wrote to you. I . . . Stacey . . .”