On the Run (Whispering Key #2) - May Archer Page 0,57

yearned for him, even when he was standing a few paces away, and let me tell you, darling, Toby Elford did not yearn for any man. I’d learned early that yearning begat pining, which begat letting myself be taken for granted, which begat drowning my sorrows in copious amounts of Blue Bunny Peanut Butter Party eaten directly from the carton. I’d only had to experience it once… or, alright, fine, maybe thrice… to know that, like gas station sushi, it was a situation best avoided. Since then, I hadn’t allowed myself to be the yearner, I was the yearn-ee. Or something.

Yet, here I was, breaking all the rules of an entire adult lifetime—crackity crack crack—just to have him kiss me in that unhurried way of his, like kissing wasn’t the vehicle that got us to our destination but the destination itself.

“Definitely better to be an expert at a few things,” I slurred, licking my lips when he finally pulled back. “You were totally right. We’ll stay home.”

“And miss Littlejohn’s trivia night?” Beale shook his head. “Nah, we’ll go, and then we’ll come back.” He winked. “I think they call that edging.”

I think they called this screwed.

Beale pulled his Jeep into the gravel parking lot of a little bar on Cooter Key just after sunset. The place was relatively tiny—a single low turquoise building with a slightly pitched roof and wooden shutters, bordered on two sides by an L-shaped patio half again as large as the bar itself—but it was packed to the rafters. Light and laughter spilled out each wide-open window and led us up the conch-lined path from the lot.

The crowd on the patio seemed mostly to be tourists—either that or folks around here really loved wearing I-Heart-Cooter T-shirts—but when we got inside, the vibe was a bit different, and the faces were already familiar just from hanging around town for a few days. A group of bikers sat in the corner and nodded at Beale when we walked in. Bubba Irvine and his wife, Lety, who owned the Concha, called out our names, and a bunch of older men and women playing a board game looked up and waved cheerily. Dale Jennings, Littlejohn’s cousin, turned away from the television over the bar and embraced me like a long-lost relative.

“Trey! Dude, you’re here! LJ said you were coming, but after the time he got sun poisoning and thought I was Big Bird, I ain’t ever sure if he’s serious anymore. We’re gonna murder these Cooter clowns and mop the floor with their entrails,” he said gleefully.

There was a lot to unpack there, and I debated explaining how mopping worked, but before I could open my mouth, Maddie McKetcham threw herself into my arms, blonde curls bouncing dramatically.

“Oh, Trey, thank goodness. Juju, Carolyn, Grandma, and Mr. Wynott were discussing your party? And I offered to make homemade decorations, you know? Like maybe a sign with the tiniest bit of glitter and stuff, since signs are kinda my thing? And also maybe streamers? In coordinating colors? But Mr. Wynott said nonsense ’cause that was tacky and they’d want elegant tablescapes.” She crossed her arms. “Glitter is not tacky.”

“Pssht,” Dale scoffed. “’Course it’s not. Marius don’t know nothin. ’Sides, ya can’t decide on decorations and tablescapes until ya have a theme. Trey, what’s our theme?”

They looked at me expectantly.

I gave Beale a look that said, Help a fake soul mate out?

And he gave me a smiling look that said, You’ve got this, ringer, which was not at all helpful.

Truth to tell, the Mason I’d known before would probably want elegant, but the Mason who’d voluntarily committed himself to a blue-collar beau and a full-time life with these folks?

“The theme is… homemade glitter,” I said firmly. “So your decorations would be perfectly suitable. And if Mr. Wynott has concerns about that, he may address them with me directly.”

Marius Wynott had impressed me the first time I met him because he wore a waistcoat like nobody’s business, and I’d give him points for that, but I was deducting points for abysmal people skills.

“Yay! I’ll tell them,” Maddie said. “Oh, and also? Ms. Charbonnier says nobody added her to the Facebook group for the party, and how’s she gonna make sure no one else is bringing ambrosia if she’s not in the group?”

I sighed. “Ms. Charbonnier is Bernie, right?”

Maddie nodded.

“Hmmm.” I pulled out my brand-new phone and opened my very new “Trey” Facebook profile. The irony of having a profile for my alias when I’d