bagels and a container of cream cheese. “Who said anything about love? You can still care and want to get to know her without confessing your dying devotion. Jeez, drama drama drama.”
I refuse to acknowledge her dig or get offended by a teenager’s interpretation of the situation. A teenager who’s tugging open the toaster cabinet and plopping one half into each side.
How the hell does she know where all this shit is?
I need to install cameras, stat, and change my damn door codes before she wises up, invites her friends over, and throws a raging kegger at my house while I’m traveling for work.
“You think I should go over there?”
Molly gives me an incredulous look. “You don’t honestly think she’d step foot in this house, do you? After last night? Get real.” The bagel pops up and she quickly pulls each piece out, dropping the hot carbs onto a plate. “You could ask her to meet you at The Ivy. That would be romantic.”
“The scene of the crime…” I say ominously.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
But now that she’s mentioned it, it’s a great idea. Invite her to the place where we met for drinks, but this time, it will be a real date. One where I grovel and beg and confess my…my…
That I like her.
Now how am I supposed to get her there?
Twenty-Three
Chandler
Hollis: I’m starving!
Me: Maybe you’re pregnant.
Hollis: Why does everyone keep saying I might be pregnant?
Me: Because you might be pregnant?
Hollis: Fine, it’s true that we’ve been trying, but NO I AM NOT. And that’s not why I texted you…
Me: Sorry, lol. What’s up?
Hollis: I’m starving.
Me: Okay…?
Hollis: Wanna eat with me? Trace is working on one of his houses.
It’s always weird hearing my cousin call her husband by his real name rather than his nickname and I always forget he flips houses in the off-season.
Me: Sure, I could eat. What did you have in mind?
Hollis: Somewhere with amazing drinks. I’m in the mood for a cocktail.
Me: That’s SO many places…
Hollis: What about The Ivy?
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keypad on my phone, top teeth biting into my bottom lip.
Who cares if it’s the place where I went with Tripp—it’s not like it holds sentimental value. It’s just a restaurant. I’m a big girl; it’s not going to trigger me.
Me: Sure, that sounds good. What time?
Hollis: How about…meet me there in an hour? I’m just wearing jeans.
Me: Cool. See you in an hour.
Same curbside. Same valet. Same walk up the concrete sidewalk to the front door of The Ivy.
It looks semi-deserted and I wonder if Hollis made a mistake choosing this place because it does not appear to be open. Then again, it’s still too early for a dinner rush or a drinking crowd.
Same doorman.
Same hostess.
“Chandler Westbrooke?”
I nod.
“Right this way please.”
She’s leading me to the bar, the room quiet but not completely devoid of customers; an older couple is enjoying cocktails at the long counter, and a gentleman with his back to me sits at one of the high-top tables.
I do not see my cousin anywhere.
Confused that the hostess recognized me, I consider going to check the dining room; surely she’s mistaken. We’re here for dinner, not drinks, and Hollis hasn’t arrived yet.
My stomach growls.
If the hostess will seat me, I can order a bread basket and maybe some appetizers, or even—
“Chandler.”
Tripp is rising from the high-top, all six foot three of him, and I stare, dumbfounded. Give my head a little shake.
“My cousin isn’t coming, is she? This was a setup.”
“Guilty.” He holds his hands out. “I didn’t think you’d see me otherwise.”
I didn’t think he wanted to, considering he hasn’t even tried to contact me. No texts, no phone calls. No flowers.
A bouquet I hadn’t noticed rests on the tabletop.
Okay, I will admit, the flowers are a nice touch.
A little bit of the ice that formed when he hurt me thaws.
“I guess you’ll never know since you didn’t reach out.” I say it because he needs to know staying silent is no way to work through a misunderstanding.
“Would it have mattered?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Alright. I’ll remember that.”
I hope he writes that shit down because I have no interest in teaching a grown man how to be in a relationship.
Slow down, speedy—you don’t know why he brought you here.
I sit, setting my purse on the table next to the bouquet.
“Those are for you.”
They’re beautiful—look hand cut, and specifically selected by someone, for me. Wildflowers wrapped in brown paper, mixed with roses, greenery…with snapdragons and hydrangeas. It’s huge, colorful, and smells gorgeous.
“Thank you, I