CHAPTER 5 Tatum Barker
Waiting in the Wings
Ford orders dinner from one of the restaurants in this building, and someone knocks on the door half an hour later with our meals.
“Can we eat on the terrace?” I beg.
It’s so pretty out there, and it’s such a nice night. I hate to let it go to waste sitting here inside.
“I don’t have a table to sit at,” he points out.
“So we eat out of our to-go containers with our drinks on the floor beside us. C’mon,” I say, angling my head toward the private terrace.
I ditch my phone and leave it on the counter, and I ask about how this season has been going for him.
We make small talk. He eats the breakfast for dinner he ordered—steak and eggs with a side of bacon, his favorite.
I munch on the spaghetti and meatballs, my favorite meal that I deny myself too often in favor of leaving carbs at the door.
Archer and I broke up. I can indulge in a little pasta to make myself feel better. And maybe waffles with a side of sausage in the morning.
He fills me in on the latest here in Tampa, and I tell him about the best wedding stories I have since the last time we chatted.
“Have I told you my most recent personal favorite story?”
He shrugs.
I laugh at the memory. “Oh my God, this couple insisted on bringing their dogs to the wedding. They were the ring bearers. Well, the reception was outdoors, and these freaking dogs spotted a bird. They proceeded to chase said bird and plowed into the cake table, which toppled down to the ground. It was a total and complete disaster and was absolutely something out of a movie.”
“Oh, shit,” Ford says, laughing. “What did you do?”
“Super wedding planner to the rescue,” I say, holding my arm straight with my hand balled into a fist like a superhero, and then I lean in a little closer.
“I drove to Costco and bought the biggest cake I could find. It was chocolate with white buttercream, and it honestly tasted better than the Earl Grey and lavender shit they ordered from some fancy schmancy bakery.”
He laughs at that. “What flavor would you get?”
“Mm,” I moan. “Something indulgent. Chocolate hazelnut or salted caramel chocolate.” As if I haven’t planned every single detail of my own wedding that’s apparently never going to happen. “What about you?”
“Chocolate hazelnut—like Nutella?” he asks. When I nod, he says, “That. Or, you know, whatever the bride desires.”
“You got any lassies waiting in the wings?”
He makes a pfft sound as he shakes his head. “Too focused on the game and family drama to invite someone into that mess.”
“Maybe Morgan? She seems tough enough to handle the drama.”
He laughs. “I literally met her for thirty seconds at the airport. Trust me when I say I wasn’t picturing our future wedding.”
“Well, maybe we should change that.” I raise my brows pointedly.
“How?”
I nod inside toward my phone. “I’ll grab my phone after dinner and see when she’s free to meet you. What day works best?”
“Never,” he mutters—I think. His voice is too low to be sure. He clears his throat. “I’m actually pretty busy.”
I raise a brow. “Not too busy to pick me up from the airport and entertain me all evening.”
He looks caught for a second. “You know Tuesdays are my only real free day.”
“And Mondays. And most evenings except game day and the day before game day. Except if you’re traveling.” I repeat his schedule with boredom in my tone, and he laughs.
“Exactly. And I’m tired after practice and just want to come home and relax, not go out on a date.”
“Then invite her here. Get her on your turf and you can relax together, like we’re doing now,” I suggest.
“I like relaxing with you,” he says quietly.
Something twitches in my belly. I’m not sure what. Maybe it’s the pasta I’m currently chowing down on, but it feels like something else entirely.
“I like relaxing with you, too.”
If that isn’t the understatement of the century. I’m already starting to realize how much I love it here. It’s slower paced. Ford actually listens when I talk. He’s kind and understanding. He’s a good friend.
“But don’t you want to find someone to share your life with? Isn’t it lonely living in this gorgeous place with this romantic view and not having anyone to come home to?” I ask quietly.
I want him to be happy.
I could make him happy.
I push away that intrusive thought immediately. It’s off the table. It’s not something I ever considered. Sure, he’s hot as hell, and he’s kind and sweet and, in general, a really, really good guy who loves bacon and breakfast for dinner.
But he’s also Archer’s brother. He’s always been off the table, and just because Archer and I broke up—again—doesn’t mean jack shit.
I’ll text Morgan after dinner. That will help drive that intrusive thought right off the edge of a cliff, just where it belongs.
Me: What does your schedule look like this week? I’m arranging a date for you and Ford. It’s Tatum, the girl from the plane, by the way. [grinning squinting face emoji]
Her answer comes quick.
Morgan: I’ll clear whatever I have going on for a date with Ford Bradley. [hot face emoji]
Me: [rolling on the floor laughing emoji three times]
Morgan: I have a parent meeting on Friday I’m happy to move if needed.
Me: He has a game Sunday, so can you do tomorrow night? He might be tired after practice, but I can figure out a place to meet that’s close to the training center.
Morgan: Yes! OMG YES! Are you serious RN?
Me: Yep, consider it done. I’ll text you the details later.
Morgan: Thank you, new bestie! You can be MOH at our wedding!
I stare at the words, not sure why I feel a stab through my ribs at that. I want him to be happy. It has to be because Archer and I broke up, and I’ve never been further from the dream of getting to be the bride for once.
“She’s free tomorrow if you are,” I say as he finishes cleaning up from our dinner. I’m sitting at the kitchen counter across from where he’s rinsing the silverware and cups we used.
He lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I can do dinner tomorrow. Let’s plan on seven, and I’ll meet her at Gillian’s. It’s a steakhouse near practice.”
“You got it.” I text her the details before he can change his mind, and I also text him her number.
Mission one: Score Ford a girl—complete. Maybe. If they hit it off. I guess time will tell.
* * *
When I wake up, the house is empty, but there’s a note on the counter in Ford’s neat penmanship.
T-
If you need anything and can’t reach me, call the hotel concierge. They can get you a car, groceries, whatever you need. You’re welcome to anything in the fridge. Have fun.
-F
It was sweet he left me a note. He’s thoughtful that way—he didn’t text because he didn’t want to wake me, and I appreciate that.
I wander around the place and realize I’m going to be alone for most of the day.
Maybe it was dumb to arrange a date for him right after practice on my first full day in town.
I have no real idea what to do with myself.
And so I grab some yogurt out of the fridge for breakfast and locate the coffeemaker to get that going.
I grab the big Stanley cup I brought with me from the guest room that’s now my room and fill it with icy cold water before I settle in to get some work done.
I sip from my first cup of coffee as I reply to several emails from clients and vendors, update timelines and checklists, and book some appointments for various clients.
I start a second cup of coffee as I batch create some social media posts—something I always try to do but often forget to do.
I order lunch from the same restaurant we had dinner from last night. I busy myself with more work.
The later in the day it gets, the more I notice my eyes inching toward the clock.
It’s simple curiosity, that’s all. I’m excited for Ford and my new friend. I’m excited to be the matchmaker. Maybe someday I’ll plan their wedding.
The thought leaves me with an inexplicably hollow feeling.
I bury myself in more work, and I take a stretch break to stare out the window at his view. I let myself out onto the terrace, and I breathe in the salty air.
What would it be like to work here? Maybe I should add Tampa to my shortlist of dream places to own a venue.
Seven o’clock hits, and I know I should order dinner, but I’m not hungry.
Their date is starting.
Those two thoughts are unrelated.
I think.
I’m nervous for them, maybe. I can’t stop wondering how it’s going. Because I’m curious. Nothing more.
I can’t focus on work. I can’t eat. So I sit on the terrace and stare out over the water until I hear the door inside click.
I stand and turn to see Ford walking in. He’s carrying a container of his leftovers, and I casually open the door and walk in.
“How was the date?” I ask.
“Did you eat?” he asks rather than answering.
I shake my head.
“I somehow knew you didn’t, so I brought you dinner.” He holds up the container. “It’s the same thing I ordered. You’ll love it.”
“Oh. Thanks. That was really nice of you. How’d it go?”
He sets the container on the counter and grabs a fork for me, and he pushes both across the counter. I settle onto a stool and wait for him to answer before I start eating.
“It was nice. Fine. Fun.” He shrugs.
Well…that’s not exactly a rousing review, and I’m not quite sure why a small measure of comfort darts through me. “Are you going out with her again?”
He shrugs. “She was nice enough.”
“Did you kiss her?” I’m not sure where the question comes from. It’s not my business, and even I can hear a slightly dark edge to my tone.
“No.” His eyes move to mine. “I didn’t feel a spark.”
Relief? Is that what I’m feeling?
Why would relief pulse through me at his words?
Maybe deep down I knew that she wasn’t right for him.
Or maybe, just maybe, I tried to pawn him off on some other woman in some wild and futile attempt to protect myself.