I know better than to make deals with the devil, aka little brothers, and say nothing.
He waits, tapping his toe.
I raise an “I’ve got all day and you don’t” brow.
“Think about it,” he says, not giving up. “You just said you don’t want me to have regrets. Because regrets suck rat tails, right?”
Then he’s off, down the hall to the stairwell, and I give the empty doorway the answer to his question about regrets.
“Hell, yes. They abso-fucking-lutely do.”
3
Peyton
Forty-eight hours, and freaking Harriet’s is still running its obnoxious sale.
That’s why Monday is not the day for me to follow my yoga instructor’s advice.
Let go of your worries, Nadia encourages us during our sun salutations in an early evening class after work. I’m sure there’s a time for that, but it is not now.
Nor is it the day to finally ask the sweetie-pie guy in class to join me for coffee.
Because, well, he’s not here.
And I suppose it’s for the best. If I tried to ask him out today, I’d likely botch it. Again. On my first try a few months ago, I was so tongue-tied that he thought I was on Molly.
After class, I sling my yoga mat over my shoulder and say goodbye. “Thanks for a great class, Nadia.”
“Thank you for coming. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan.” I head to change and pop the mat into my locker before I head uptown in the fading twilight of an early fall night.
My Mary Janes slap the sidewalk of Lexington Avenue, and I stretch my neck, wishing the class had Zen-ified my thoughts. But I’m still thoroughly un-Zen, thanks to Harriet’s horrific sale.
There are only two people I can turn to at times like this.
First, Amy.
My friend answers immediately when I call her. “I’m about to run into a meeting,” she tells me, “but are we still on for late-night lattes?”
“I’m always up for caffeine. But when did you start having meetings at six thirty at night?”
“I had a brainstorm this afternoon about the next book we’re launching, and I want to run my crazy idea past my boss. If she likes it, I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“I love your brainstorms and your crazy ideas. See you later.”
I end the call, turn the corner, and head straight for the other person on my shortlist.
Tristan.
My best guy friend ever.
I cock back my arm, and with narrowed eyes, I take aim, imagining Harriet’s Wardrobe. I picture cloying pink polyester satin, pajama tops dropping silver glitter like dandruff, and cheap ruffled panties that shred on the second wash.
“Porcupine,” I curse, grabbing something that Mimi would pull from her handbag of acceptable swears.
Then I fling the beanbag at the board.
It misses the hole, skidding past to hit the concrete floor with a splat.
Someone clears their throat, which I can hear because the bar/restaurant is closed on Mondays. A masculine voice rumbles across the game room. “A little less firepower is more sometimes when it comes to cornhole.”
“Thanks. Let me see if I can dial myself down.”
“It’ll be tough,” Tristan warns soberly. “Lawn games are played by many but mastered by few.”
“Why can’t you have ax-throwing here? It would be so cathartic.” I can’t picture that trendy sport in his eatery, but teasing him is always rewarding. His verbal sparring is on point, one of the many reasons he always resets my mood.
He drags a hand across his scruffy square jaw. “Call me crazy, but I feel like ax throwing mixed with liquor is a recipe for, oh, I dunno, severed limbs and lawsuits?”
“That’d be a no, then?”
His hazel eyes narrow as he puts on a no-nonsense, stern face. “Beanbags are as deadly as you get with me. Take it or leave it.” He scoops up a handful, dropping them onto the floor next to me.
Grabbing one, I catapult it and watch as the beanbag careens past the sweet spot. I stomp. “Who made this game so hard? Axes. I want axes.”
He laughs at my plight. “If you’re having a hard time with beanbags, what makes you think a deadly blade would be better?”
“Maybe I was a lumberjack in a past life.” I finger the hem of my short skirt. “After all, I’m wearing plaid.”
With an arched brow, he eyes me up and down, taking in my red V-neck top, my black-and-gray plaid skirt, and my patent leather Mary Janes. I’ve never met a day of the week that wasn’t improved by a skirt.
“A princess lumberjack maybe,” he says with a wry grin.
“Great! So you’ll have ax throwing installed in time for my birthday, then? Because cornhole is killing me.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Cornhole is easy, Peyton. I swear.”
I bat my lashes. “Show me, pretty please.”
“You want me to show you how to play the game hipsters can do drunk? You, the badminton champion?”
“Different sport. Also, I’ve never played before. I’m a cornhole virgin.”
“All that time with underthings has really honed your innuendo game.” He walks behind me, scoops a beanbag from the pile, and drops it in my palm. I raise my hand to lob it at the sloped board.
“That’s your first issue,” he says, stopping me before I let loose. “You need to do it underhand.”
“Ah!” I knew there must be a trick to it.
“To put it in badminton terms, you’re not trying to smack the birdie over the net.” He covers my hand with his. “You’re gently batting it.”
He’s closer than I’m used to, and for a flash of a second, it registers that Tristan smells good.
Like pine and soap.
Like the opposite of my ex.
But I push away all those highly distracting thoughts and chant, “Nice and easy.” Trying not to inhale another hit of his yummy scent, I gently toss the bag across the board.
It slides into the hole.
“Woo-hoo!” I spin around, thrusting my arms in the air. “Victory! I feel better already.” I drop my arms, thinking about the awful last two days. “As soon as that Harriet’s sign went up on Saturday, my traffic slowed to a trickle. Today too.” A fresh wave of frustration wells up as I picture that stupid banner. “Half off. It’s a slap in the face to the brand image I’ve tried to build.”
“I know, and we’ll figure out a plan. For now, I have something that’ll cheer you up more than chucking beanbags.”
I rub my palms together. “Is it the owner’s special?”
“It is indeed. Close your eyes.”
I hum in excitement. This is one of my favorite parts of my visits—when he makes a drink just for me. Each time it’s different. Some days call for liquor; others require only soda or tea. Nearly all are delish, and on the mark, because the man has a gift.
I shut my eyes as his hands drop onto my shoulders. He spins me around, guiding me from the game room to the bar.
“Sit,” he says, but I’m not entirely sure where I am. I know the general layout of his restaurant, but I’m blind right now, and don’t want to fall on my face.