Don't Let Go(24)

I narrowed my eyes at her, wishing I had lasers to go with them. “Seriously? That’s what we’re starting with?”
She set her drink down and held out her hands. “What, it’s a valid question! One I get asked at least twice a day. I’m only asking you once.”
“You know what?” I said. “You take it on this year.”
“It was due today.”
“And if I know you, you already have something cooked up and designed on the computer,” I said.
She shrugged. “Just in my head.”
“Well, knock yourself out,” I said, sipping my margarita. “I pass the sales genius to you.”
She laughed. “You’re such a procrastinator.”
“I’m totally not,” I said, frowning. “I just—”
“Hate this festival,” she finished.
“No,” I said defensively. “I don’t hate it. It’s perfectly fine—and yeah, I’m lying, I hate it.” I laughed, holding up my glass.
“It’s okay,” she said, some of the snark leaving her expression. She looked at me lovingly. “I understand why you hate it. But you could just have fun with it like everyone else,” she said.
“It’s a fake snow parade in Texas, Ruthie. When’s the last time you saw snow?” I leaned my elbows on the table. “I can tell you all three times for me. Kindergarten, senior year, and five years ago when Becca was twelve and the school let them out to play behind the gym.”
“Exactly,” Ruthie said. “It’s rare, and therefore fun to be corny with it.” She leaned forward. “Be corny with it.”
I rubbed my temples. “I can’t.”
“That’s because the senior year instance was—”
“Ladies,” said a male voice from behind me, cutting Ruthie off and making me jump in my seat. I swiveled to see Patrick smiling down at me and Ruthie smiling up at him.
“Hello,” she said, tilting her head in amusement and darting a glance my way.
“Oh, crap, Ruthie—you haven’t met Patrick, have you?” I said, startled as I realized that. She wasn’t at the store the one time he’d come by.
“No, ma’am, I haven’t,” she said, widening her eyes with a holy-shit look. “I’ve heard the name, heard the stories—”
“Ooh, I have stories?” Patrick asked, managing to look completely wicked.
“Oh, most definitely,” Ruthie said, absently stirring her drink with her straw. “The—motorcycle trip alone was worth the time.”
Patrick laughed, a deep sound that had my senses stirring. A nice feeling, but I wasn’t there for that. I was out with Ruthie, for a girls’ night, not trolling for sex.
“So, you,” I said, attempting sultry. Sort of. By the look I saw pass over Ruthie’s face, I assumed I failed. “What are you doing out here tonight?”
He nodded toward the bar. “Just picking up some quick dinner, and then driving to Austin tonight.”
“Austin?” Ruthie said.
“My next job starts there on Monday,” Patrick said, his hand resting on the back of my chair. “Have to go get set up this weekend and get my guys ready. Make sure everything works and everyone is there.”
“You’re gonna be a while, huh?” I said, meeting his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, a soft look playing there that had me thinking naughty things. “Probably till mid-February. I’ll call you.”
“Well, yeah, you can have phone sex,” Ruthie said, her tone casual.
Patrick laughed and I stared at her. “Ruth Ann.”
“What did I tell you about that name, Ju-li-an-na?” she said on a laugh. It was meant as an inside joke, a nod to our childhood, but it brought Noah back to the forefront, and I felt my stomach tighten up.
“Maybe we will,” Patrick said, his tone half flirting with her, half promising me something hair-raising as he circled the subject back. He chuckled as he slid past my chair. “Be back in a little bit, beautiful,” he said in my ear, sending goose bumps down my back as he headed for the bar.
We watched him together for a second. “God, I’m such a damn easy lay when it comes to him,” I said.
“I can see why,” she said, and then she thumped me on the arm. “You didn’t tell me he looked like that.”
“Like what? Hot?” I asked. “Yes, I did.”
“No, I mean—” She circled her hands, looking for the right gesture. “Bad. Dangerous. Like he could—gnaw on raw meat or something.”
A laugh tickled me at the visual. “I’m pretty sure he likes his meat cooked,” I said. “Then again, it’s never come up. We had pizza once.”
“What kind?”
“Meat lovers.”
Ruthie’s look had me giggling like a schoolgirl. If a schoolgirl would be drinking a top-shelf margarita.
“So are you drunk yet?” Ruthie asked when we recovered.
“On half a margarita? God, I hope not,” I said on a laugh. “Why?”
She licked her lips and peered down into her glass before looking back up at me with a very contemplative expression.
“I have something I need to tell you,” she said, attempting a smile that I knew her well enough to recognize as placating.
“Is anyone dying?” I asked, remembering Becca’s question from the other night.
“No.”
“Okay then,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Anything else is minor. What’s going on?”