Page 21 of The Love Wager

He plops the oversized bag with my filthy clothes on the desk. “Can you take care of these for Indie? We’re heading to dinner.”

“Oh my god, Brooks. I’m a guest, not family! I’m so sorry for his rude demands. He just showed up at my door before housekeeping could come by and collect, and they really are?—”

“Dear,” she cuts me off, talking over my ramblings, “it’s okay. Mercy, our housekeeper, had to take the evening off, so no one would have been by tonight, anyhow. I’ll make sure they’re taken care of and up to your room by morning.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Great, now that that’s settled, let’s go. I’m starved.”

The drive to the heart of Abaline is slow, but I don’t mind. The scenery is beautiful as the watercolor sunset moves toward the horizon. From the outskirts of town, where the inn is settled, it’s mostly flat farm fields in the middle of plowing for sowing season. The old truck rumbles across the pothole-riddled pavement as a muted tune plays on the staticky radio.

“So, where are you taking me for dinner? I don’t remember seeing anywhere else on Main Street?” I ask when we stop at the single stop light before the two rows of shops off Main.

“It’s a town secret. Can’t get in without a reservation, and they rarely give them out.”

I throw him a confused look across the bench seat. It deepens when he puts the truck in park in front of his bar. “Uhh, I don’t want to come across as a stuck-up city bitch, but are you bringing me to your bar for dinner?”

He ignores me, jumping out and running around the front of the truck again to pull open my door. This time I don’t give him shit for it, because deep down maybe it is nice to have a man be a gentleman for once.

“The bar’s packed full. No, I’m not taking you there. Trust me?” he asks, holding out his hand to help me down.

“I’m famished, so I don’t really have a choice.” I shrug and follow his lead. It doesn’t last long. Pulling up short, I yank against his hand when he tries to lead me into the alley next to the bar. “Uhh…” I let my unease hang in the darkening night air.

“If I were going to murder you, I would have done it when you were half-conscious in my truck last night. No need to be scared now.”

He has a point.

Using my free hand, I wave back to the sketchy path down the shadowed alley. If I go missing in a town like this, they’ll never suspect their golden boy.

“You’re still thinking about me offing you, aren’t you?” he asks, halting at a metal door that’s doing very little to make me feel any better. He shoves a key into the lock and pushes it open. A dimly lit hallway, with old carpet and paneled walls, leads to a narrow set of stairs.

“I’ll be partially to blame if this ends badly. Look at me following right into your trap.” I laugh, trying to play off the nervous energy coursing through my veins.

We walk into an open, well-lit apartment at the top of the stairs. Relief washes over me, calming my racing heart. It’s sparse, but what little belongings he has are organized neatlyand it’s impeccably clean. Maybe those fill-in days at playing housekeeper left him with a tidy hand.

“Make yourself at home. Can I get you something to drink?” he asks from the small kitchen to the left. “Though I should warn you. I don’t keep liquor up here.”

“That’s okay. I don’t drink much. I’ll take a water or iced tea if you have any.”

He spins on his heels, one hand still holding open the fridge. “Could have fooled me with how you threw them back last night.”

“Yeah, well, drinks are cheaper here than in LA. Last night would have cost me three times as much. The same as a month’s rent, and my place is smaller than this.” I swing around, motioning to his space.

“How can you stand to live in a place like that? Costing that much and with all those people?”

I drop onto one of the barstools lined on the other side of the short counter, separating the kitchen from the rest of the room. He slides a clinking glass of iced tea in front of me, and I drink down the refreshing sweetness, steadying myself to answer his question without making it weird.

“I don’t really have much choice. But that’s a long story and not one for nights like tonight. So, why don’t you tell me what we’re having for dinner? I heard this place is exceptional. Five-star Michelin, they say.”

He smiles at my joke, letting the awkwardness fade away. “We’re having pasta.”

EIGHT

Brooks

Indie peruses around the apartment while I plate the pasta I got from the Italian place, a town over, right before picking her up. Popping each plate into the microwave, I warm the food as I pull apart garlic knots and pour some iced tea into a glass for myself.

Once I’m headed to the table, music filters through the room. Smiling, I look up at Indie, who’s turning to face me from where she’s connected her phone to the surround sound system.

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