“You want to talk about it?”
I picked at the edge of my napkin. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“I’m not in any rush.” He reached into the cooler and popped a cap off a beer, his eyes never leaving mine as he took a long, slow sip.
I glanced up at him from under from the shadow of my baseball cap. “Would our conversation be protected by our attorney-client privilege?” My teasing lilt suggested I was flirting, but the question danced around the edges of my very real fear. No one but Vero knew my whole story.
He watched me over another sip of his beer. “I’m not an attorney yet. And you’re not a client. But any bartender worth the salt around his glass will uphold a solemn unspoken oath with the customers who frequent his establishment.” He leaned forward, his arms folded over the bar, his voice falling soft as he toyed with the neck of his bottle. “Call it a duty of confidentiality.”
The bar was empty. The lights over the booths in the back switched off in sections, until all that was left were the soft glow behind Julian’s head and the bright white light through the swing door to the kitchen, where glassware clanked and dishes clattered, the sounds muted under a high-pressure spray.
I took off my baseball cap and set it beside me on the bar, raking back my hair as Julian’s eyes moved over my face. I fortified myself with a long, slow breath, and then I started where every story truly starts—not on page one, but at the very beginning. I told him about my family and my childhood, about Georgia and my parents and my marriage to Steven. I told him about my job as an author and the books I’d written that no one had read. I told him about Theresa and how my marriage had ended. About Vero and my children and the day the electric company turned out the lights. About my meeting with Sylvia at Panera, and how my life had spiraled out of control after that. I told him everything, holding nothing back, watching his face for reactions as I recounted the night I’d slipped out the back of The Lush with Harris slung under my arm. Julian listened, looking away only once to replace my empty beer with a new one. There was no disapproval on his face, no judgment in his eyes. The quickening beat of his pulse in the tight, tanned skin above his thumb as I recounted our escape from Andrei at the farm was the only clue to his thoughts.
When I reached the end, our beers were empty. He didn’t offer me another. I let out a long, shuddering breath as I opened my purse and laid a twenty on the bar. “Thanks for the drinks. And for listening. I should probably go—”
Julian’s hand closed over mine as I reached for my hat. “My shift’s over. Feel like grabbing something to eat?”
My heart hitched. “I’d like that.”
Julian held my stare, his gold eyes warming as he called out to his boss, “Hey, Les, I’m heading out. See you tomorrow.” He set his rag on the bar and shrugged on his coat, meeting me on the other side. I felt his eyes trail over me, a smile creasing their edges when they fell on the long T-shirt peeking out from under my hoodie. He held the door open for me, raising an eyebrow when I pulled my keys from my purse. “Where are we headed?” he asked as he followed me to my van.
Sometimes, I decided, you just had to sit down in front of a blank screen and start typing. My minivan was clean. My alternator was fixed. I had a babysitter and plenty of cash in my pocket.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. But I had a pretty good feeling this chapter would have a happy ending. “Get in. We’ll figure it out.”
CHAPTER 44
It was nearly ten o’clock the next morning when I reluctantly tumbled out of Julian’s apartment. Barefoot and shirtless, he’d backed me to the door, his jeans riding low on his hips and his hands knotted in my hair, whispering good-byes between kisses I felt everywhere. Wearing a stubborn smile, I sat at a red light, singing along to the radio and raking the tangles from my hair, wondering what I would tell Vero. Technically, I only owed her forty percent of the story. But it was nice to know there was someone there waiting, eager to know what happened, when I got home.
Across the busy intersection, the parking lot of the Panera was lightly peppered with cars. I checked the time on my dashboard clock. Patricia Mickler was probably already inside waiting for me. But why? What could she possibly have to offer me except an explanation? Or an apology?
The light turned green. The Mercedes behind me leaned on his horn. Instead of proceeding straight across the intersection, I put my foot on the gas and cut the wheel hard, crossing two lanes of traffic and sliding into Panera’s lot. Idling in front of the restaurant, I stared through the tinted glass windows into the dining room, but I couldn’t make out the faces in the booths inside.