Page 14 of Beckon

During a vigorous game of Barrel of Monkeys, played Martin style, they discussed Harold, her mother’s upcoming nuptials, and what daddies smell like. After allowing her son to sleep with a dirty jacket that belonged to a stranger, Tami set out to pick up her first fare for the night. It was a little early for anyone to be drunk yet, but it was five o’clock somewhere and people were headed out.

Tami hitacceptbefore she checked the destination or pickup. She chalked it up to her mind being preoccupied with her mother’s wedding. Holy cannoli, her mother was getting married.

Following the line on the map, she didn’t even realize what side of town she was on, until she double-checked the pickup information.

Chandler.

The name meant nothing to her, but the address caused her heart to thump against her ribs and her palms to sweat.

The drunken stranger’s address was the pickup location.

“Fiddlesticks.” She was not ready to see him again or tell him her son adopted his jacket. And she most certainly didn’t want him to see her sucking the spaghetti sauce off her shirt she’d only noticed after she’d pulled up in the front of his apartment. But there he was, standing there staring at her sucking on her T-shirt.

He opened the door and slid into the back and his not-so-daddy scent invaded her senses.

“Kill me now.”

“Don’t say that. I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

5

CHANDLER

Solid ice.

That’s what her words turned his heart to. A block of ice solid enough to sink a big fucking boat. He wasn’t even going to have a chance to apologize. She was sorry she’d accepted the trip the second she realized it was him, if her words were a clue.

He hadn’t been sure it was her, even when he saw the car, it was a bobblehead of the Queen of England bouncing away on the dash that gave it away as soon as he sat down.

Tamitha.

When the name had popped up as his driver on the way, he thought she definitely looked like a Tamitha, but he wasn’t one to get his hopes up. Especially after a dozen rides, he didn’t really need, that hadn’t been her.

Now he was in her back seat after what seemed like an endless search, and he was mute. Chandler realized her response to his flippant question mattered to him. It mattered a lot.

“Don’t say that. I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

Even though he intended to apologize and make things right, he wanted her to think kindly of him. Chandler had ceased to give a shit what anyone else thought about him, but her, Tamitha… her opinion mattered.

That thought floored him. And terrified him. And confused him and a million otherands. If someone liked him or not was a worry the old Chandler had, especially women. This version of him? This version didn’t give a crap about anybody or anything.

But he did care though, and that was remolding his world.

“Oh, no. Sorry, not you, well, yes you, but I mean, not how bad you were, although you weren’t exactly Mister Charm, I mean…”

She went on in one long, drawn-out sentence. Chandler didn’t even see her breathe between words. He heard something about spaghetti sauce and her mom, a jacket and people named Chester and Harold. He wasn’t sure about who was who or who did what. He was lost in stunning green eyes that locked onto his… nose in the rearview mirror.

“It’s all good,” he interrupted her two-minute-long sentence. “Especially if you have dinner with me.” Chandler should’ve used more tact, but she was rambling, and she hadn’t shown any signs of stopping. It was behavior he kind of recognized, well the polar opposite. He got still when he was nervous, or rather he used to. He didn’t have a clue what he did now. Did he even get nervous about external things anymore?

Chandler couldn’t remember the last time he’d approached an attractive woman or felt nervous about talking to her. But there he was.

While he wasn’t trying to date Tamitha, he did want to spend time with her. Apologize and make sure she never lost that caring gene she had, even when it was misplaced on the likes of him.

A voice inside him, one he almost didn’t recognize, asked,why not? Why not take her on a datedate?

It was his own voice. One that hadn’t spoken to him with kindness or hope since before…

“Um, dinner? I tell you, you’re not getting your jacket back and you want to buy me dinner? The jacket was at around forty-five dollars, I looked it up online. Dinner would be at least that if I didn’t get dessert, which I always do. By that math, I would still owe you. Plus, I had spaghetti three hours ago. And popcorn.”

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