Page 3 of The Last Close Call

“I’ve been here.”

TWO

Eight weeks later

The Lucky Duck was half empty, which was just how Rowan liked it.

Johnny Cash drifted from the speakers. A young couple occupied a high-top table in the corner, and several regulars sat at the bar, chatting up Lila as she pulled a pint.

Rowan’s favorite booth was taken, so she grabbed one near the window beneath a neon SHINER BOCK sign. Lila darted her a questioning glance, and Rowan gave her a nod as she slid into the torn vinyl seat.

She grabbed the plastic menu behind the condiment bottles and looked for something decadent. She was starving, she suddenly realized. For the past five days, she had subsisted on cereal and microwave popcorn.

As she skimmed the choices, Rowan tugged the scrunchie from her hair and combed her hand through it. She probably should have showered or at least put on a clean sweatshirt before coming here. Oh well. Too late now.

“You finally came up for air.”

She looked up as Lila slid a Tanqueray and tonic in front of her.

“Thank you,” Rowan said. “You read my mind.”

Lila sipped a ginger ale—her hydration beverage of choice when she was working.

“Busy night?” Rowan asked.

“Not really.” She shrugged. “Good tips, though.”

“Has Dara been by?”

“Yes.” Lila’s eyes sparkled, and she tossed a springy brown curl over her shoulder. “She was here earlier. With a date.”

“Oh yeah?”

“They left after an hour, so you’ll have to get the scoop. Are you eating?”

“Yes, but I can’t decide.”

“Try the nachos,” Lila said. “We’ve got fresh guac today.”

“That sounds good.”

A couple walked into the bar and claimed a pair of stools on the corner. Lila eyed them as she nursed her drink. “I have to get back. I’ll give Sasha your order.”

“Thanks.”

Lila returned to her post, and Rowan scanned the faces around the room, trying to guess people’s stories. It was a game she played whenever she came here alone. All the singles tonight were regulars. Ditto the two guys shooting pool in the back. Her attention settled on the couple at the high-top. Based on their age, they might be students at the University of Texas, maybe seeking a night away from the crowds on Sixth Street. But they had a seasoned look about them. The woman’s makeup was perfect. And they both exuded the stiff body language that screamed first date.

Rowan watched them subtly from her booth. Head tilts. Intense eye contact. The woman arched her brows as she sipped her margarita through a straw, displaying just the right amount of interest in whatever the guy was saying. He rested a hand on his knee and looked confident—but slightly nervous—as he expounded on whichever first-date topic he’d selected for the evening.

A chime emanated from Rowan’s purse. She pulled out her phone and read a text from the Austin lawyer whose client Rowan had been working for all week.

Got your email. Omg TY!!

The words were followed by three halo emojis, and Rowan felt a swell of pride.

Anytime, she texted back. So glad I could help.

This attorney had sent her three referrals over the past six months, and now there would likely be more on the way. Rowan’s anemic bank account was finally getting a boost. It couldn’t come soon enough. Her December credit card bill had just come in, and she hadn’t even wanted to look at it.

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