Page 6 of Hers for the Weekend

That was the question, wasn’t it? Were they actually going to go through with an absurd deception so Tara didn’t have to feel embarrassed? “I don’t know yet, but it’s not off the table, so try not to confirm or deny anything.”

His sigh could have powered wind turbines. “I hate you very much and I will keep your secret and I will see you up here for the wedding, but you will owe me for this. Also, you should probably date Holly for real.”

“She’s out of my league,” Tara deadpanned, although she wasn’t kidding. She would be terrible for Holly. Holly would probably be great for her, emotionally, but terrible for her life plan.

The justice system of South Carolina was deeply corrupt, and she came from a family deeply embedded in, and benefiting unfairly from, said system. She couldn’t dismantle the system—no single person could. A robust, well-organized movement was working on that. So she gave them a lot of money, showed up and did the work they needed done, and tried to not take up too much space.

Miriam had once quoted the Talmud to her: “it is not up to you to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.” That quote had embedded itself in her heart, and led her steps in her career. Had led her, specifically, to leave divorce law and use her privilege by offering representation, pro bono, to clients in need of a good defense attorney.

It wasn’t world-changing work, but she loved it, and until the system was toppled, it helped even the playing field in the courts just a fraction.

However, because she was a lesbian with a, well, colorful past, she had to walk a careful line in order to maintain proximity to the Old Boys network she was currently exploiting. If she got involved with someone who was not just a Yankee, but also a waitress, she would lose access—or Holly would pretend to be someone she wasn’t and the Old Boys would still be horrifying to her. There was no way Tara would get entangled with anyone who wasn’t trained to be a society wife. It wouldn’t be fair to them.

She liked Holly far too much to ask her to put on that cursed mask.

Chapter 4

Holly

Cole was right, which, in Holly’s limited experience with him, was usually true. He might be a giant blond whirlwind of jokes, but he was surprisingly insightful.

She and Tara should, actually, date. In fact, she’d been trying to get Tara to ask her out for months, as soon as she realized that Tara wasn’t devastated by her breakup with Miriam. Normally, Holly would have made the first move, but Tara was skittish and used to being in charge. If she could make dating seem like it had been Tara’s idea all along, they were more likely to get somewhere.

It was not, on the surface, a great idea.

Tara was settled in Charleston and Holly was on her way out, sooner rather than later given the job situation. She’d already been here for three years, which was longer than she’d intended to stay. After she left home, she’d never stayed anywhere for long. There was a lot of world to see, and she was still in the middle of seeing it.

Not to mention Tara’s crowd was stuffy, and they kind of sucked. Holly had no interest in playing the society girlfriend, brunching with drunk plantation owners while they complained about woke cancel culture or chatted about polo. But something about Tara was so incredibly sexy, so fascinating to Holly. The perfect hair, the Lilly Pulitzer wardrobe, the way she always smelled like magnolias—she projected this aura of impeccable Southern sweetness, but right under the surface was a prickly, ice-cold bitch who would take any prosecutor to the mat and who made Holly want to beg to be stepped on.

So yes, it would be a bad idea to get involved long-term, but dating didn’t mean they were getting married, after all. Holly didn’t do serious relationships. They tended to make her feel trapped, and then she got shitty and lashed out, hurting the other person to cut their ties. What she did do, though, was fun. She and Tara could have a hell of a lot of fun.

Tara hung up with Cole, and Holly pushed up from the booth. “I have to go back to work, but we should get dinner, somewhere that’s not here, and talk about whether or not we want to do this, and if we do, plot logistics. Want to go for pizza?”

Tara sniffed. “I have a very good pizza oven at my house. Why don’t you come over.”

Holly noticed this was an order, not a request, and shivered a little. She smiled, making sure the dimple in her cheek popped, and let the waterfall of her red waves cascade over her shoulder, for added effect.

“Text me when,” she said, and handed Tara the bill, with her number on the bottom.

This would be perfect. They’d get out of town, away from all the ties that bound Tara and creeped out Holly, and have an adventure. Tara would use her to avoid feeling left out and lonely with her friends. Holly would use Tara to avoid going home for the holidays so her mother could try to set her up with her ex. She didn’t see why an expiration date should keep them from getting naked together. Actually, it was in the plus column. Everyone got orgasms, no one got hurt. Tied up but not tied down, as it were.

Which made her envision Tara tying her up, an excellent distraction from the rest of her shift.

When Tara texted her about dinner two days later, she was about ready to climb out of her skin. She was convinced that Tara was going to change her mind and that that’s why she hadn’t been into the cafe. This would be fine, Holly told herself. She didn’t need to embark on fake-dating hijinks, either to avoid going home for the holidays or to get into Tara’s pants, although she’d gotten her hopes up about both. Especially since her little brother had texted her several more times to try to guilt trip her about how sad their mom was.

She spent more time than she would have liked to admit picking out a bottle of wine to take over. She knew Tara had wine, probably much better wine than Holly could ever afford, but she’d been in the South long enough to know that you didn’t show up to someone’s house without a hostess gift.

Flowers seemed like they would send the wrong message, since she was trying to convince Tara that hooking up was her idea—Holly didn’t want to seem like she was coming wooing. She could have baked something, she knew exactly what Tara liked, but that made it seem like they were still waitress and customer, instead of… friends? Partners in crime? Acquaintances who accidentally knew everything about each other?

Except that, while she knew a hell of a lot about Tara, Tara knew almost nothing about her. The inevitable power dynamic between server and regular.

Finally, wine in hand, hair looking amazing, heels a little too high, and nerves stuffed down, she rang the doorbell to Tara’s Single House. Charleston had a booming business renovating these old colonial houses, built long and narrow so the air could go straight through from front to back, in the days before air-conditioning. Of course Tara lived in one. The perfect home for a daughter of Charleston’s Old Money. It was painted the softest pale coral, with a wash of haint blue under the porch roof. The blue was meant to ward off evil spirits in the Gullah tradition, and Holly wondered if it kept Tara’s parents from entering, like vampires who’d had their invitations revoked.

Her fencepost had the traditional pineapple embellishment. It was the perfect symbol of the mask Tara was always wearing—the emblem of Charleston’s white settler-colonial roots guarding the entrance to the home of a woman who gave every impression of hating the whole system built on those roots. She wondered, not for the first time, how Tara balanced that juxtaposition without breaking. Holly itched to help her let off some of the tension she must be constantly under.

The door swung open, and Tara stood there in a cotton tunic, barefoot. Her toes were painted a gray-blue that matched the Atlantic on a cloudy morning, and Holly almost swallowed her tongue. It wasn’t that she’d never seen Tara casual, or in sandals. They lived in a swamp, and sometimes the only way to leave the house in the summer was in as little clothing as possible. But she’d never seen her this comfortably undone.

“I brought wine,” she managed. “It’s probably not very good.”

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