Page 14 of One Night Forsaken

I pat his shoulder again and laugh before walking off to deliver more orders.

When I deposit Mags’s and Geoff’s food on their table, she yanks me down beside her. Gives me a side hug and kisses my hair. We chitchat about the concert until the line inside grows and I have to step away.

One order after another, the line dwindles down. When no one is looking, I peek over to two tables. One outside and one in the nook. I pray they both don’t finish at the same time. That Mags doesn’t find a way tobumpinto him and dig. Not that I think she would, but you never know.

Since she met Geoff, Mags has been a new woman. Not as quiet and frail as she once was. No, now she has this undeniable strength and bravery. She gets out and lives her life to the fullest. Watching her crawl out of her shell warmed my heart. I commend her and Geoff for everything they went through—on their own and together.

Perhaps one day, I will be so lucky to have what they do. An indisputable bond and a love to stand the test of time. One day. When life slows down.

Not a day in my life has passed where I worried over my outfit, hair or makeup. If anyone fretted over such things, it would be Lena—bestie number two.

Yet here I am, tossing shirts over my head and onto the floor. All in the hopes I findthe oneto match my jeans.Hello, dumbass! All tops match jeans.I roll my eyes at myself.

Why is this happening? The stress of looking my absolute best is taxing.

Just another reason to add to the list of why not to date. Not that tonight is a date. Nope. Because I, Alessandra Marie Everett, do not date. Tonight is just dinner with an out-of-town journalist who may give me free publicity. It is strictly business. Something I can write off on my taxes.

Maybe it’ll be another night of smoking-hot sex.

As long as he—goal one of the evening, learn his name—agrees this is not a date, sex is still on the table.

I spin in circles and stare at every shirt I own on the floor. Maybe I should close my eyes, stick out my arm and twirl until I get dizzy. Whichever direction I point to when I stop decides the shirt I wear. Pretty decent idea, if you ask me. Better than calling Lena or Mags and asking them for advice.

I love my best friends. Love them as if they were my own flesh and blood. Heck, we grew up together. Practically lived together most of our adolescence. But seeing as I havenevertalked about my hookups or “love life” with them, asking now would stir up more questions than I care to answer before leaving the house.

Like a small child, I close my eyes, raise both arms and spin, spin, spin. When I start to get dizzy, I slow and lower one arm to my side. As I come to a stop, I grip the floor with my toes and remind myself I am no longer moving. Once I feel stable, I peel my eyes open and look at the shirt I chose.

A teal swoop-neck tee. Perfect. The color will pop against the dark denim. Plus, it will look great under my jacket.

After I slip on the top, I gather the rest of the shirts and stuff them in the closet. “I’ll deal with them later.”

In the bathroom, I brush on a hint of eye shadow then highlight my cheekbones. A few swipes of mascara and baby-pink lip gloss later, I am ready to go.

I fetch my jacket from the closet and purse from the bed then head for the door. As I crank the doorknob, I look to the oval mirror by the door and take in my appearance.

Other than ladies’ night on Fridays, I don’t recall the last time I got dolled up. Especially for a man. Not that I never make an effort to look nice, but it has been years since I got so worked up over dinner with a guy.

This is not a date. This is just two people getting together and eating food while discussing the town I live in.

Maybe if I repeat it enough times, the idea will stick.

No romance. Just fun.

I lock up, hop in my SUV and crank up the radio. On the drive to the restaurant, I sing along with the music. Distract my wayward thoughts of sex with my mystery man. Unfortunately, no song is powerful enough to divert my attention. Each time the chorus ends, my mind drifts.

Thank goodness the restaurant is close.

Two songs later, I pull into the lot at Catalina’s Cantina and search for a parking spot. With today being Saturday, the Mexican bar and grill is more crowded than usual. Fantastic.

How many familiar faces will be here tonight? How many will gawk and whisper?

Like any city or town, small towns have their ups and downs. I love living in this quaint place where the population is small and residents are friendly. I love living where I have known Rosie from the florist shop or Jacob and Terrance from the pet store for most of my life. The familiarity is comforting. The knowledge that you can rely on people and vice versa is a stress reliever for the soul.

But with that familiarity comes the gossip gang. The eldest townsfolk whose parents founded Lake Lavender. The ones who sit in small groups on Sunday mornings at the Lake Lavender Diner and share every new development—no matter how big or small. They sip mug after mug of coffee, eat the same boring breakfast, and gossip worse than school-age children. And it isn’t just the women, but the men too.

The worst part about the blabbermouths is they don’t care who knows about their not-so-whispered tales. The gossipmongers blather with pride.

Will any of them be in the Cantina tonight? Will I be the center of the town’s attention tomorrow?

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