Chapter 7
Loch
I’d sent the car for Tuesday and chose to walk. The restaurant isn’t far from the office, maybe nine or ten blocks. It’s not a restaurant I visit often, but they know the Wescott name, so it wasn’t too hard to secure a reservation. Doesn’t matter. I had plenty on my mind to keep me company.
Between the Reinhold case and being sidetracked by Tuesday, it’s not been a great week. The judge rescheduled their court date for Monday. As for Tuesday, she seems set for the time being. I’m hoping to hear how things went today. Though, I was surprised she accepted my invitation.
I thought she would be at the police station to deal with details or even headed home. I didn’t expect to receive her text: When and where?
The simple response was the lighter moment I needed in my day, but I quickly wiped away the silly grin when Leisa came into my office to drop off a file. I cleared my throat and got back to business.
I’ve been looking forward to tonight ever since.
The transition between the happy hour crowd and the dinner guests keeps the noise level elevated inside the restaurant, so I choose to wait at the far side of the bar for Tuesday. Hoping we get some reprieve from the chatter of the main dining area.
Bourbon won’t do me any favors, but it should get me over the hump of midweek.
I take a sip, letting the amber liquid flow. It tricks my mind, making me relax before it hits the system. It’s been a week, and it’s only Wednesday.
Leisa’s orders were to take the rest of the night off. I chose to do the same, to unclutter my brain and not think about work. That left my mind to wander to the only other thing keeping me busy.
Holy shit.
Tuesday.
I stand the moment I see her. The Bergdorf shopper promised she wouldn’t be disappointed with the dress.
When she strips off her coat, revealing the black dress that hugs her waist, heels that not only advertise her five-five, five-six height but also show off those incredible legs leading to her curvy hips, I’m not disappointed either. Not that I could be with her.
The host takes her coat and hands her a check before pointing at the back of the restaurant where I’m standing, gawking like a fourteen-year-old boy. Jesus. Pull yourself together, Westcott.
You’d think I’d never seen a beautiful woman before.
Is that what Tuesday is?
Dumb question. Of course, she is.
But am I going to use that as a baseline like she’s nothing more than a pretty face?
So far, she’s so much more.
I can’t go there, though. I won’t twist this relationship. Although I’ve always had a deep appreciation and weakness for beautiful women, Tuesday and I are platonic, and I intend to keep it that way.
With her hair hanging over one shoulder when she approaches, her smile grows when she sees me. “Platonic,” I mutter, gulping from my glass in a feeble attempt to remind myself, but I think it might be too late.
“Hello,” I say, then clear my throat from the frog that seems to have settled in it. Puberty was a bitch the first time around. I don’t intend to repeat it.
With a sweet laugh, she leans in as if she’s going to kiss my cheek. Is that what we’re doing? Air-kissing when we see each other?
She backs away with a look of mortification, sucking in her breath and her gaze away. Her hand flies out as if she can shoo the air of awkwardness away. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m—”
I catch her hand, stopping her words. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe it’s a memory reflex, something you did before.”
“I feel like that’s all my life is now—something I did before, a life I’m not privy to anymore.”
“Well, if it gives you any comfort, you haven’t forgotten how to rhyme.” Damn, I probably shouldn’t have said—
“Very funny, Westcott.” I also win a grin from her, even if just a little one.
With a shrug, I chuckle dryly, still holding her hand. “I try.”
She’s a paradox of a woman, as complicated as her coffee order. She changed from the demanding woman at the coffee shop to smiling after being attacked and injured.
When her eyes go to our bonded hands, I let go of her and tuck mine into my pocket, glad for the bustle in the restaurant. It keeps her from hearing me gulp nervously. You know, like I’m that kid back in school.
Her scent travels the small space between us, and I take a deep breath. Floral mixed with vanilla. She’s making me rethink my stance on our relationship and keeping it platonic. Platonic doesn’t begin to describe my thoughts while looking at her in that dress.
Trying to be subtle is fruitless, so I defer my attention. “Drink?” I offer, forcing my eyes to the bar and taking my glass in hand.
“I’m thinking I shouldn’t just yet.” Touching her head, she says, “Still healing.”
“Right. I almost forgot.” Why am I acting like this? Fucking hell. It’s not a date.
“And interestingly enough, I guess I do drink since I don’t seem opposed to the idea in the general sense.”
“I suppose you do.” I hold up my glass. “Do you mind—”
“No, not at all. Go ahead. If I thought I could drink, I’d order a glass of champagne.
” Her eyes go wide, and her smile cracks her expression.
“I like champagne,” she confesses as if she’s won an Olympic medal.
“I’ve been keeping mental notes when I recognize a piece of my puzzle, hoping it helps me figure out who I am just in case my memory never returns. ”
“The doctor said you might not get your memory back?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I think it’s more of a backup plan to help me cope while I’m recovering.”
She’s so easy in her words, so sure of herself for someone who claims to be the opposite. Tuesday may not remember her past, but she knows who she is in the moment. That’s more than most people can say.
“Ah. That makes sense.”
The host comes up behind her. Holding menus at her side, she says, “Your table’s ready, Mr. Westcott.” She tilts her head away from the bar. “Follow me.”
“Are you ready?” I ask Tuesday.
She nods, then turns to follow the host as she guides us to our table. It’s one I’ve sat at before on a date—a cozy corner where interruptions are fewer. I’m not sure how she’ll feel about the intimacy of it, but we’re about to find out.
I move behind her when she sits and tuck her in before moving to the other side of the table for two and taking my seat.
When we’re alone, Tuesday leans forward with a genuine smile that makes me wish this were a date.
The women I date don’t typically have stars in their eyes.
It’s been a long time since someone looked at me as more than a means to an end, a layover in the city for one night, or like someone they might want to have a conversation with that doesn’t involve intercourse as the dessert course.
Tuesday is a breath of refresh in her enthusiasm. I won’t wax poetic about it since she’s suffering from amnesia. Everything is new to her and, by extension, more exciting. Even me.
She lays her napkin across her lap, and says, “I’m happy you texted.”
“You are?”
“I don’t know, but being alone all day wasn’t that fun.”
“I thought you’d be resting.”
“It was nice to be out of the hospital. I took a bath and ordered room service. I have to warn you. Don’t look at the bill.” She winks, the woman captivating me.
“Oh yeah? What will I find?” I glance around to make sure no one is listening and then lower my voice. “Porn?”
“What?” She draws attention from neighboring tables and recoils.
“For the record, I don’t watch porn,” she adds, not worried about everyone in the restaurant overhearing.
Struggling to maintain her composure, she starts laughing.
“I was referring to the double order of fries. Wow, you slipped and rolled right into the gutter with that suggestion.”
“Apparently, it’s one of the top charges at hotels. Go figure.”
“I have nothing against it, but . . .” She scrunches her face. “Why are we talking about this again?”
“You mentioned the bill.”
“Ah. Right. Annnyway,” she says, her smile still shining under the restaurant's dim lighting. “I’m excited because I have no idea when I last ate pasta, but I’m so hungry for it right now.”
That was an impressive journey, detours and all. I chuckle. “I’m glad you’re here, and I can fulfill your pasta fantasies.”
“Pasta fantasies? You’re naughty, Mr. Westcott.” If she keeps calling me Mr. Westcott, she just might find out how naughty I can be. She goes on to say, “But truer words have never been spoken.” Sitting back in her chair, she gazes at the menu. “Now, what do I want?”
Although I’d chat aimlessly with her all night, I glance down, pretending to scan the menu because this is not a date. I already know what I’m ordering. It’s the same thing I order every time I’m here. “What looks good?” I ask.
When I look up, I find her eyes on me. Not even bothering to hide it, she asks, “What do you recommend?”
“The classics are always a safe bet at Italian restaurants.”
“Like you?” There are those stars again, shining bright. She’s trying to do me in, one sweet smile at a time. “A handsomely tailored suit, knows about etiquette, and oozes charm.”
“I didn’t know oozing could be charming.”
“Yet here you are, proving my point.” She laughs. “Tell me something, Loch.”
“Australia is wider than the moon.”
“Huh?” She giggles with a slight roll of her eyes. “No, I meant something else.”
“A hashtag is actually an octothorpe for the eight points.”
A pointed look doesn’t hold under her laughter. “Other than wanting to be on your team for trivia, why do you know that?”
“I enjoy reading.”
Her jaw slacks open, and her brows shoot toward the ceiling. “So do I.”
I love that she makes it sound like we’re the only two people in the world who like to read. It’s another connection to her that I won’t take for granted. “We should hit the bookstore together sometime.”
Relaxing her features, she replies, “I’d like that.”
I rest back, then ask, “What would you like to know?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you’d like to ask me something when we were talking about classic dishes—”
“Right. That was before you derailed the whole conversation,” she jokes.
“Actually, teasing aside, I wanted to ask if you ever lose hope when the pressure feels like it’s too much to handle?
” Her intense eyes make it seem as if she needs a lifeline right now.
Her eyes dip closed, and she adds, “I’m not sure if anyone’s going to show up for me. ”
“You don’t need to worry, Tuesday. I’ll be here for you as long as you need.” What am I doing? What am I saying? I’m not in a position to make her that promise, much less keep it.
“How can you say that, Loch? We just met.”
Exactly. She understands I spoke in the moment. “I don’t want to see you sad.” The truth.
“Why?” Why?
Her eyes water, doing exactly what I hoped to avoid. I work in corporate law because I don’t have the skill set to deal with raw emotions. She needs someone in her corner, someone on her team. Am I ready to be that for her? To commit to see her story through?
A tear falls as she looks at me. “Got any advice for me, counselor? I can’t pay you now but send me a bill, and I’ll add it to the pile,” she says, trying so hard to sound like she’s not broken, but I hear the crack in her voice.
“I never charge the people who are important to me.”
A smile escapes her sadness, and she sweeps strands of loose hair in with the others over her shoulder. “Oh dear, Mr. Westcott, did you just admit I might be important to you?”
Despite the teasing in her tone, I scrub a hand over my face, my own grin cracking through the conversation. “Eh, we all have our weaknesses.”
“I’m glad we finally found one of yours.”
She’s most definitely mine.