into his maw, and stared at the TV above the bar. If she could just get past him, she could relax again.
But she sat in her booth for only a few minutes before she realized she wouldn’t be relaxing at all. Because suddenly Joe stood beside her, two glasses of red wine in hand.
Sarah looked up, saw what he was wearing, and immediately said, “No.”
Twenty-two
“What do you mean, no?” Joe asked.
He stood beside the booth dressed in button-down Levi’s and a faded UCLA hoodie. It had to be the same one from six years ago, Sarah thought, since it was tighter across the chest and shoulders now, and the cuffs looked tattered. Which meant that there was the pocket where he first warmed her hands. There was where he first touched any part of her.
She tried to cover her reaction with sarcasm. “Come on, Burke, you’re not that sentimental.”
“You don’t know that,” he said, handing her one of the glasses of wine and sliding across from her into the horseshoe-shaped booth. He lifted his own glass in a toast. “Happy Birthday, Sarah.”
She studied his face, searching for some hint of how he expected her to answer. He had to know that showing up there like that—wearing what he was wearing—would catch her off guard. And then remembering her birthday—what did he think she was going to say?
But before she could come up with the right line, whatever it was, Burke leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Come on, Red. Take the night off. It’s your birthday—you’re entitled.”
“Fraternizing with the enemy, huh?” Chapman’s booming voice interrupted as he shambled toward their table. “Or is it cavorting?”
Keeping his gaze on Sarah, Joe slowly leaned back. “Both. Want to join us?”
Sarah widened her eyes at him, but Joe ignored her.
“Sure,” Chapman said. He made a move for Sarah’s side of the booth, but Joe stopped him.
“No, why don’t you sit over here, Paul.”
Joe made room for Chapman by scooting closer to Sarah’s side. She pressed her foot down hard against the top of Joe’s. He pretended not to feel it.
But he reached beneath the table for her hand, and gave it one quick squeeze before letting go.
“I’m celebrating,” Chapman announced.
“Why’s that?” Joe asked.
“You two are going to have to start getting along without me. I made a deal yesterday. Thanks to Sarah here, I’m going home.”
Sarah didn’t feel like asking any follow up questions, mainly because she knew she didn’t need to. Paul Chapman was one of those people who viewed any conversation as an opportunity to monologue.
“I told them, ‘If you expect me to start spending even more time out of the office and traveling to even more cities just because that psychopath Sarah Henley’—no offense,” he added, which Sarah thought was uncharacteristically sensitive of him, “—‘thinks she’s going to show everybody up and act like some hot shot just so she can bill every last dime out of this case before it settles . . . ’” He paused to take a sip of his drink. “‘…then you’re either going to have to pay me a bigger bonus this year or let me farm it out to one of the associates. Because I am done here. Finito,’” he said, in what Sarah thought might be an attempt at Italian.
Joe’s hand was on hers again under the table. He gave it another quick squeeze, perhaps signaling something, Sarah thought, but instead of letting go this time, he held on.
“So they’re sending out one of the underlings, starting next week,” Chapman continued. “Good luck with that. Those new kids don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”
The server showed up then, and took their orders. Joe still held Sarah’s hand.
“That’s all you’re eating?” Chapman said after Sarah asked for several sides of vegetables. “No wonder you’re skin and bones.”
While Chapman instructed the server in the proper preparation of his meat, Joe pretended to study his menu so he could whisper to Sarah behind it. “I like the way you look. Always have. But especially now.”
“What happened to keeping your distance?” Sarah whispered back.
“I decided to take tonight off, too.”
Sarah allowed herself to hold his hand a moment longer, then drew it away. Joe let her go. But he widened his legs just enough to make contact with hers. And she let him.
This wasn’t the dinner she had dreamed of for her 30th birthday. Exhibit A: Paul Chapman, back to droning endlessly about himself. Exhibit B: Joe Burke, sitting close enough to her