Chapter 11 #2
Before I can form a response that isn’t word-for-word the same thing I’ve said to Savannah many times, Ian is at my shoulder looking quite cheery. Even cheerier than usual, which is saying something. “Got your drink, Lucy?”
He’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating off him. Which isn’t a complaint. He smells mildly of spices, and I’d be lying to myself if I pretended this kind of proximity with a man, and a kind man at that, doesn’t stir in me a longing. But it’s a longing I can’t afford to indulge.
I lift my cup of chocolate chai. “I’m all good,” I say.
“Great! Come on over and join us whenever you’re ready.”
Huh?
“I told Sunny all about you,” Ian continues.
“She’s looking forward to meeting you.” In tandem, we turn our gazes toward the red settee, where his neighbor lady sits staring at her lap.
She snugs her cardigan more tightly at the nape of her neck, and I can’t help thinking she looks like someone who’d be more excited about a nap than a social call.
“I’m so glad you came, Lucy,” he says. “This totally makes my day.”
I gape at him, wordless.
The front door chimes. “Excuse me again,” Ian says.
Saved by the bell.
The man who enters sports a tweed flat cap and wine-colored scarf. He isn’t much, if any, younger than not-so-sunny Sunny.
“What’s going on?” I stage-whisper to Savannah, who just reappeared. “Some kind of senior citizens group?”
Her flat smile holds an apology. She taps the flyer taped to my side of the register.
Writers group seeks members. Strong tea, gentle critique. Meets Thursday evenings, 6:30 p.m. at Sweet Reads. Bring your WIP.
“Savvy!” I back away from the counter. “Tell me you didn’t . . . is this why . . . you set me up!”
“I didn’t, I swear. I didn’t set you up. I seriously just invited you because I needed someone to talk me down.”
Fair enough. I mean, inventing a pregnancy just to get me out of the house would be a pretty elaborate ruse. Even so, my heart’s going at a new clip.
When Ian returns, I waste no time before gently informing him that I’m only here at Sweet Reads to visit Savannah. But something pinches my conscience. Never once, not even for a moment, did I entertain the possibility, remote as it may be, that I might want to say yes.
My speech draws a brief eyelid flutter from Ian. “Oh, right. Gotcha,” he says, producing a tight smile that doesn’t even begin to connect with his eyes. “My bad. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
Fantastic. Now I’ve hurt his feelings. See, this is just it. This is why I’m better off safely sequestered at home with my bottomless to-be-read pile, giving my focused attention to green living things. Not humans.
I’ve never unintentionally hurt a plant’s feelings, at least not to my knowledge.
Again, someone’s at the door, and Ian hurries off to play host. The woman he greets this time is closer to my age, maybe a little older.
I’m a poor judge of age. It’s impossible to compare myself to elegant thirtyish women who never have to worry about being mistaken for high schoolers.
At the moment, what I mean by elegant is that kind of charisma unique to some Pacific Northwest women: self-possessed and outdoorsy. Beautiful without trying.
“Savannah, could you please start a mint tea?” Ian ushers the newcomer into the meeting room.
Man. The way that woman works the hip-sway in her black stretchy pants could earn her an influencer gig.
And based on how Savannah knows what name to scrawl on her paper cup—Nytasha—she’s a Sweet Reads regular.
Another woman arrives, this one more my mother’s age and with an easy smile. Travel mug in hand, she walks buoyantly, joining the others in the reading room.
I don’t notice Ian approaching. When he speaks, the hope in his deep-brown Scottie-dog eyes might be the death of me. “Last call. Sure I can’t convince you to join us, Lucy?”
Savannah’s gone in back to start a load of dishes.
“It’s just . . .” I stammer, “even if I stayed, it wouldn’t be for long.
I need to—” To what? In truth, my neighbor Nina won’t pick up the kids from tae kwon do for another hour, and even then she’d be thrilled to keep Chase longer if it helped me initiate an actual social life.
“Not a problem,” Ian says. “Stay a few minutes or stay the whole time. This is new for all of us. In fact . . .” He checks his watch. “This may be all of us. Anyway, you’re welcome to scope it out, see if it’s your vibe. No pressure. No commitment.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” And I do want to make good on this.
While Ian rejoins his circle of guests in the next room, I take the opportunity to wander over to the New Releases table.
Books gentle my cortisol levels, and I could stand to regroup.
So I pet the deep-violet cover of Pinot and Peril—the title in a bold, high-impact font that promises edge-of-your-seat suspense over a soft-focus image of a lush vineyard at sunset—and open to the front flap.
I call this procrasti-reading.
It says here that Stoneback’s latest brings back one of my favorite heroines, CIA operative Sloane Ford.
This time she must hunt down a terrorist holed up in Napa Valley before he carries out another deadly attack.
Picking up where Delta Deception left off, it promises more romantic tension with her Delta Force Echo partner, Gage Remington.
Page-turning suspense? A chance for Sloane and Gage to finally resolve their sizzling chemistry? Yes, please.
Which begs the question, does Stoneback intend for this heroine to ever get her hero? Or are the two protagonists stronger apart? Are they safer alone? It’s always a high-stakes proposition.
Needless to say, one I relate to.
A warm murmur of chatter, now and then punctuated by laughter, floats over from the reading room, and my heart clamps down a little. This squeezing feeling is . . . okay, if I’m honest, there’s definitely an element of FOMO. Over sips of chai, I sneak glances at the group.
Only two seats remain open, and one of them is a shiny black beanbag, no thank you. If one more person arrives, I’ll miss my chance at the only nonsquishy place left to sit.
Would this be my best yes?
It’s not like anyone can force me to read my work aloud. Or to come back next week, for that matter.
The only thing still stopping me is, well, the usual. Whenever I enter a new situation, I’m haunted by the sensation that everyone else knows exactly what to do, and I do not. When God was passing out social confidence, I got passed over.
“You want to do it, Lucy.” Savannah has reemerged and is studying me. “I can tell.” She flips a towel onto her shoulder with practiced ease.
“What makes you think that?”
“You’re wearing your resting nerd face.”
Whatever that means. “I came here to see you.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m sure I just need some time to adjust to the idea of . . .” she strokes her tummy, “. . . of you know what. Besides, you totally made Ian’s day.”
“Mm-hmm. Hey, can I borrow that towel for a second?” She offers it up. I swat her with it.
Fine. Let’s do this. The people meeting in the other room tonight, mostly octogenarians, are already a peculiar assortment. I can’t imagine the addition of my special brand of peculiarity will drastically alter the dynamic.
Besides, I’m only here to observe.
Nevertheless, I stall. Visit the restroom. Apply lip gloss. Pinch color into my cheeks. Finally, I employ my best fake-it-till-you-make-it stride and approach the circle.
“Ah, Lucy. Glad you could join us,” Ian says. I press on my brightest smile as all eyes turn my way. It’s at this moment I realize that the chair I was heading for, the one that was empty only moments ago, has in fact now been filled.
Also, the person who fills it is no stranger. The man may be out of uniform, but I’d know that dark, shaggy fringe anywhere. Because I just interviewed the guy this afternoon.
Lieutenant Hayes. Wyatt. My all-grown-up spelling bee adversary.
Squishy beanbag it is, then. With all the grace I can muster, I swerve.