Great Big Beautiful Life(39)

“Oh?” I say, intrigued.

“Fish Bowl’s having a little soiree tonight,” he says.

“I do love a soiree,” I say. “Celebrating anything in particular?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he says. “It’s an annual fete. In honor of my birthday.”

“Oh, wow! Happy birthday!” I say.

He chortles. “Thank you, dear, but my birthday isn’t until December. This is just in honor of my birthday, which happens to be Christmas. I always thought that was a raw deal, so I started throwing myself a summer bash about ten years ago and never looked back.”

“Genius,” I say, and his grin widens again.

“I think so,” he agrees. “Anyway, small bites provided, no gifts required, and drinks at happy hour prices. Stop by if you feel so inclined.”

“I will,” I promise him. “Would it be all right if I brought a friend?”

“Already made a friend!” he cries. “Other than me, of course.”

I laugh. “Well, no. Someone from back home. He’s driving up from Atlanta later today.”

“Sure, bring him along,” he says. “It’s a more-the-merrier situation.”

“My favorite kind,” I say.

“Then I’ll see you sometime between seven and midnight, Ms. Scott.” He tips his bucket hat at me and saunters off.

The smell of ground coffee beans beckons me, a siren call coming from Little Croissant. I grab my laptop from my back seat and head toward the robin’s-egg blue coffee shop’s elevated platform.

I’m out, so I might as well enjoy it, but if I can’t interview Margaret, I’m at least going to do some more independent research.

I order an iced brown sugar latte at the window, then take it down to the flagstone patio.

Some deep part of my subconscious feels his presence and sends an uncanny prickle to the back of my neck in the second before my gaze sweeps over the hunched, hulking shape of Hayden Anderson.

His computer sits on the little mosaic table in front of him, but his eyes are right on me.

There’s no pretending we didn’t see each other.

For once, I wish I was a little less chronically polite, that I was as comfortable with a good scowl or blank stare as the man four feet in front of me.

“Hello,” I say coolly.

“Hi.” His reply is terse, uncomfortable. Everything about him is terse and uncomfortable, which makes me feel a little better about our last humiliating encounter.

Another beat. “Anyway!” I turn toward the table farthest from him. It’s probably only fifteen feet away, but I think I can manage to pass five minutes there before finding an excuse to leave.

“Shouldn’t you be with Margaret today?” he asks.

My shoulders rise protectively. I should brush him off, make an excuse, or flat-out not answer. That’s what he would do.

Unfortunately, I’m still—at my core—me.

I’m already marching back to his table, the truth pouring out of me. “She canceled.”

His face betrays nothing. It so fully betrays nothing that I’m positive he knows something. Which I say, as I plop down in the iron chair opposite him.

“I don’t,” he says.

Somehow, I can hear the technicality in his voice. He’s telling the truth, but only just.

“So you don’t know why she canceled,” I say, “but you have a guess.”

He lets out a sigh. “I’m not going to speculate, Alice.”

“No, I know,” I say. “You wouldn’t possibly share any helpful information with me, even though I am the smallest and least significant threat to this job that you can possibly imagine.”

His jaw clenches. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I’m reading between the lines,” I counter.

He leans forward over the table, our knees clashing under it. “Just because you’ve made a decision about how I feel,” he growls, “doesn’t make it true.”

“So, what, you’re not positive Margaret’s going to hire you over me?” I ask.

“I’m reasonably certain,” he replies cautiously. “Would you rather I kept that from you?”

“You’re pretty keen to keep everything else from me,” I say.

His frown deepens. His lips part, as if he’s debating saying something. A sigh escapes him right before he caves: “I can’t give this up.”

I shift in my seat, my anger abating and leaving me unpleasantly vulnerable. That much I understand. That much I don’t blame him for. I expected him to fight for this opportunity, just like I am.

“I know,” I admit. “Neither can I.”

He holds my gaze for one long moment. “I would like to be friends.”

At my surprised laugh, his inky brows draw together.

“What’s funny about that?” he wants to know.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I warn, “but you sound like a robot learning to love.”

His face screws up in bafflement. “I don’t know any way to take that.”

“I just mean, you’ve pushed me away, kissed me, and insulted me,” I say. “And now you’re formally proposing friendship.”