Page 43 of Shifting Sands

“Their dinner’s on me,” I whisper to her as I stand.

“I’ll see you guys later. I’ve got to get back to work.”

Brandee

“He’s taking you on a boat tonight?” Erin’s voice is excited.

I just told her I’m seeing Brew.

“You heard me,” I say, tucking the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I stir sugar into my coffee.

“Brandee,” she says, “that’s great. Now you’ll find out if the first night was a fluke or if the hot bartender has boyfriend energy.”

“I didn’t say anything about boyfriend anything,” I correct, cringing slightly. “But we’ve been texting a lot.”

“Texting …” She pauses. “How very high school of you.”

“Erin!”

She laughs, and I can hear her flop down onto something soft on the other end of the line. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just … you’re so cute when you’re into a guy. That man had forearms like a Greek sculpture and eyes that could melt panties. Texting isn’t what I’d be doing if I were you.”

“Yeah, well, he’s been working at the bar every night, so this is the first opportunity we’ve had to spend time together.”

“And now that we’re gone, you can spend time together all over the house,” she says smugly.

“Ew. I already feel bad enough that he slept in Aunt Ida’s bed.”

“The sleeping part isn’t what you should feel bad about,” she quips.

“Ugh. Gross. I hate past me,” I mutter.

“You love past you. You climbed that man like he was your personal Mount Everest,” she says.

I groan and cover my face with one hand. “I did not.”

“Whatever. Deny it all you want,” she says with a laugh. “If it bothers you so much, why don’t you just go to his place?”

“I suggested that the other night, but he got all weird and said something about it being messy.”

“Huh.”

“What?” I ask as I take my mug to the couch and sit.

“Every bachelor has a messy house. That usually doesn’t stop them from taking a willing woman home,” she says.

“So, you think he was lying?”

“No, not necessarily,” she says. “He could be the exception.”

“What else could it be?”

“The usual suspects. He lives with his parents. He lives with his wife. He’s a serial killer with bodies buried in the basement.” She ticks off the disturbing list.

“And you didn’t think to mention those possibilities the first night?” I accuse.

“I didn’t know he’d refused to take you to his place,” she says in her defense.

The line goes silent.

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