Chapter Twenty
Twenty
On Friday afternoon when Grand, Myra, and I arrive at the grand opening of the Historic YMCA, now officially Mediterranean Place, we’re shown up to a first-floor covered balcony, where William Hightower and his band are crushing their greatest hits as invited guests sing along.
Fans not lucky enough to score an invitation do the same from the slice of sidewalk below.
We greet Maddie and Bitsy and Chase and Avery and flash big grins on cue when Troy’s video camera turns in our direction then slowly pans across our faces.
“You remember John and Renee Franklin,” Maddie says, reintroducing me to the Realtor who originally handed over Bella Flora to Maddie, Avery, and Nikki when it was all they had left after being victims of Malcolm Dyer’s Ponzi scheme. It was John’s wife, Renee, longtime president of the Pass-a-Grille Garden Club, who made sure that Bella Flora’s grounds were also brought back to their original 1920s glory.
“Wow, they did a great job of honoring the YMCA’s original Mediterranean architecture while still providing modern amenities.”
“They sure did,” Renee agrees. “Wait till you see the condos on the top floor.”
John has Realtors on-site to show the condos and retail spaces that are still available.
Joe Giraldi, FBI agent and Nikki’s husband, holds each of their twin girls by the hand as they jump up and down to the music. Luvvie rocks out to the music beside them.
Maddie’s ex-husband, Steve, is there helping to keep an eye on their grandchild, Dustin.
William steps closer to the mic, and after a wink and a smile at the little ones present, he begins to pick out the opening notes of what turns out to be a rock ’n’ roll version of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on his guitar.
“This is so awesome,” Myra says when the band joins in and the little ones throw themselves into twirling and giggling. “I came here intending to steal every idea worth stealing. Do you think we can ask Maddie to convince William to come back to play at Sandcastle Books’ grand opening?”
“Definitely.” I laugh as the kids whirl and twirl with glee. “But I don’t see any reason we can’t ask him ourselves.”
It’s at that moment that I feel eyes on me, and without looking, I know that Luke is nearby. I haven’t seen him since I spent the night at his place last weekend, but then we haven’t had a break-in, either. Or maybe the sex didn’t rock his world like it did mine.
“Hi.” I smile.
“Hi.” Luke smiles back, but suddenly I’m wondering whether his smile is strained. Or maybe it’s filled with regret?
Oh my God, this is more awkward than waking up in the morning next to a stranger. Not that I’ve done that more than once. Or possibly twice.
I give myself a mental kick and remind myself that I am no longer the teenage girl who thought he’d hung the moon and stars. I am a full-grown, attractive, intelligent woman. I’m also a damn fine actress. And even if no one will cast me, it’s time I use those skills to act like one.
My chin goes up and I plant what I hope is a completely confident smile on my face. And yet I’m not at all prepared when he flashes his knee-jellying smile, pulls me against him, and drops a kiss on the top of my head.
There are raised eyebrows. Grand pumps one fist into the air. My cheeks heat briefly with embarrassment, but I don’t brush off his arm that wraps around my shoulders or even consider pulling away. Because a large part of that heat is caused by happiness that he is clearly as glad to see me as I am to see him.
Kyra joins us, and being the friend that she is, she doesn’t raise an eyebrow or make a single unwelcome observation.
Instead, she leans close and whispers, “Later tonight there’s a private celebration at Bella Flora. Mom and Bitsy really want you both to come.”
“It’s Friday,” I point out. “I have to be at Harley’s tonight.”
“Hmmm. Why don’t you go in, put the fear of God into everyone as quickly as possible, and then…” She pauses. “Then I’ll call you and you act distraught or worried or, I don’t know, you’re the actress. I’m sure you can pull it off. Then you tell A.J. that you have an emergency and absolutely have to leave. You know, be all apologetic and everything.”
“I don’t know. What if he doesn’t buy it? What if he knows I’m lying?”
Kyra spears me with a look. “Despite all evidence to the contrary, the man continues to believe that you’re Cassie Everheart. How hard could it be to convince him you have an emergency?”
“But—”
“I know,” she says in a pure “Eureka!” tone. “Maybe Luke would be willing to stop at Harley’s and then offer to help out when you have to leave. Off-duty police take security gigs all the time, right? Then you could come join us at Bella Flora, and Luke could come once Harley’s closes.”
“But…” I begin to protest.
She grins. “You would like Luke to join us at Bella Flora, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” I admit.
“And you’d like to come, too, right, Luke?”
“Absolutely.” He smiles.
“Good. It looks like we have a plan then. My work here is done.”
“Okay,” I say. “But if I get fired, you’re going to have to hire me to do something.”
Luke snorts.
Kyra gives me a look. “That man is never going to fire you. Or believe you’re anyone but Cassie,” she points out, which, alas, is true.
Sure enough, when Luke ambles in Friday evening, A.J. is thrilled to see him. In fact, even before I receive my emergency phone call, A.J. is having a bit of a bromance with Luke. So when I explain that I have to leave, A.J.’s thrilled to have Luke cover for me.
I grit my teeth and barely hold back a sigh when A.J. immediately offers him a drink.
· · ·
Bella Flora is lit up like a Christmas tree. Children and dogs run wild, while the adults drink and mingle. Best of all, when I belly up to the bar in the Casbah Lounge, no one, including Chase Hardin, who’s playing bartender, gives it a second thought. Soon I’m happily sipping a deliciously dry martini and chatting with Kyra and Troy while Dustin unsuccessfully attempts to get his Great Dane, Max, to roll over and “play dead.” Unfortunately, Max would rather lick people’s faces and any other reachable body parts, which is why I no longer have makeup on half of my face.
By the time Luke arrives, kids and dogs have been put to bed, but the party is still going strong, and I am feeling no pain.
We mingle with the others for a while then carry our drinks outside, where the moon is bright and shards of light sparkle on the dark water.
He leans down to kiss me, and for a while, the feel of his mouth on mine blots out everything else.
I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol talking (I’m no longer used to drinking!) or my automatic reaction to how good it feels to have Luke’s arms around me, but I look up mid-kiss and say, “I think we should go on a date.”
He takes a step back and checks my expression. “A date?”
“A date. You know, where we go out somewhere together to consume food and, hopefully, alcohol. Or go to a movie. Or out dancing. Or…”
“I do understand what a date is.” He smiles, regrouping. “But aren’t dates usually the thing that helps you get to know each other better and makes you want to have sex in the first place?”
I blink at this example of male logic in which dating’s sole purpose is to make you want to have sex with them.
“It’s not like we just met. I mean, we’ve known each other since you were an annoying child,” Luke points out. “When you were a teenager, you made it clear that you wanted to have sex with me. As I recall, there was begging involved.”
“I never begged!”
He smiles. “You looked like a whipped puppy when I said no. And I felt like a heel for turning you down. But you were way too young, Syd. And we were practically family.”
I grit my teeth. I have never forgotten the humiliation I felt when he said no. Or to be precise, “Don’t be silly, squirt,” which made it infinitely worse.
My chin goes up. I am not that pathetic teenager anymore. “All I know is that we have sex whenever possible, but we’ve barely gone out in public together.”
“We’re in public here,” he points out. “We’ve been in Harley’s together. I’ve eaten dinner with you at Grand’s. It’s not like we only have sex.
“But you’re right. We have leapt over some very important steps in building a relationship. And we’re going to rectify that right now.”
I check to see if he’s teasing but he appears completely serious. “Want to do ‘rock, paper, scissors’ to decide who gets to plan our first official date?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I get to plan it because it was my idea.”
“Okay,” he concedes with mock reluctance. “But it can’t be anything embarrassing, or overly girly.”
“Who me?” I ask with the most innocent look I can manage.