And yet, I think about it as often as I try not to think about it.
“Morning, Mr. Goode,” the hostess says in a cordial greeting. “Your spot at the bar is open today.” With a smile, the girl takes a menu from the stand and starts toward the bar when I stop her.
I have no good reason for what I do next.
“Table for two, actually,” I say with my eyes on Sage.
She stares at me, her lips parted and her eyes full of curiosity.
“Oh, okay,” the hostess responds, grabbing a second menu and leading me back toward a small two-person booth near the back of the diner.
When Sage stands to follow the hostess with me, I feel a sense of victory course through my veins.
What am I doing?
We follow behind silently until we reach our seats and sit across from each other.
“I was wondering if I’d see you here again,” I say.
She smiles shyly. “Well, I don’t pull any more night shifts, and I don’t normally get up this early, so you lucked out today.”
“I guess I did.” I find myself staring at the ring in her lip and the way she sometimes bites it when she’s nervous like she is right now.
Then, from out of nowhere, I’m hit with a memory of the way I acted that night. And the fact that I owe this woman an apology.
“Sage, I’m sorry…for what happened that night.” I stammer, feeling uncomfortable.
“Which part?” she asks with one brow arched.
I lean forward, keeping my voice a near-silent whisper. “I didn’t use protection. And I left…”
“Oh,” she replies, a hint of a smile on her face. Then she leans forward to whisper in return. “I’m tested regularly and on the pill, so it’s okay. But I appreciate your apology.”
With a sigh, I sit back and let out an exhale. The relief of that information settles some of the worry in my bones. The last thing I need right now is an unwanted pregnancy with a stranger.
Sage and I are sitting in mildly awkward silence when I feel a pair of eyes on me from across the restaurant. A man,
roughly my father’s age, is watching me over his newspaper, and it’s clear by the way his eyes dart back and forth that he recognizes me.
Judging by the disgruntled line of his mouth, he doesn’t approve of my company. A month ago, I might have cared.
The waitress scurries over to pour us coffee and take our orders, and the moment she’s gone, I turn my attention back to Sage. Why did I want to sit with her today? What on earth am I trying to gain here?
And why the hell haven’t I been able to stop thinking about her since the day we met?
“How’s your…？” She points to her cheek, and I lift my fingers to mine, feeling the scar there. It’s mostly healed but still pink and fresh.
“It’s good. Thanks to you.”
She shrugs in response.
“So, how are y—” I start to ask before she quickly cuts me off.
“I’ve been thinking.” The words scramble out of her mouth, and I notice immediately the flustered expression on her face as she gazes up at me.
“Okay…” I reply carefully.
“It’s going to sound crazy, but I just have to get it out, or I’ll regret it.”
“Go ahead. Say whatever you need.”
Her ring-covered fingers are grasping the coffee mug tightly, squeezing it nervously. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since that night. Which is why I’m here. I figured you might come back on Saturday mornings, and I didn’t have any other way to contact you that would be discreet enough.”
Discreet enough?
“I assume you and your father are still on the outs,” she says, leaning forward to keep it quiet between us.
Glancing around, I make sure no one is listening as I nod.
“And you’re still pretty mad at him and would like to see him suffer a little? Maybe even…ruin his reputation?”
My heart starts to pound a little faster. I lean forward. Here I just wanted a nice breakfast date in hopes that she and I could start over and I could right my wrongs. But she’s manipulated this entire meeting for what…a revenge scheme?
“I’m not interested in outing him if that’s what you’re implying. I’ve thought about it, and I think it would do more damage to my—”
“No,” she says, cutting me off again. “I can’t out him. I can’t out any of them. It would cost the workers at the club too much. It’s not their fault.”
“True,” I reply with hesitation. My curiosity has me laser-focused on every word Sage is saying. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I already know that whatever it is she’s suggesting, I won’t comply with. I’m not interested in revenge or making my father’s downfall my goal in life now, but I am dying to know what she has in mind.
She looks down at her fingers as she chews on her lip, and I wait for her to continue. When her eyes cast upward, they are renewed with purpose.
“You can’t control how he’ll react or what he’ll do. Same with Brett. All we can control is what we do.”
My brow furrows as I stare at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Your family has a good reputation, right?” she asks, and something about Sage mentioning my family makes me slightly uncomfortable. Swallowing that discomfort, I nod.
“Yes.”
“That’s what gives Brett all his power.”
My forehead creases even more as I lean in. “I don’t follow.”
She sits back in her chair as she tries to recompose her argument. “If everyone knew how slimy the Goode boys are, no one would be surprised to hear that Truett himself owns a sex club. And if no one would be surprised, then Brett has nothing to hold over your dad’s head. And if Brett has nothing to hold over his head, he never gets the deed back, and it’s out of his hands forever.”
A heavy breath passes my lips as I stare at her. At that moment, the waitress delivers our plates to the table, but neither of us moves to eat. The space between us lingers in silence as her words hang in the air.
I replay them, briefly wondering if Sage is entirely out of her mind or a manipulative genius.
When a few moments have passed, and I’m still mulling over what I think is a major reach in conclusions, I grab the bottle of ketchup from the tray by the wall.
As I pass it to her, I mumble, “Did you just call the Goode boys…slimy?”
At that moment, I can’t help but compare this meal with the last one I shared with a woman, the day Lucy came to dinner. It’s wildly unfair how there’s something here where there really shouldn’t be.
“Hypothetically,” she replies, taking the bottle and immediately dousing her eggs with the sugary red mess.
“My brothers are not slimy,” I reply as I cover my waffles in syrup.
“It sort of doesn’t matter. If only one of the Goode boys is in the public eye…”
“And that would be me?” I say, finishing her sentence.
With a mouthful of biscuit, she nods. “Mm-hmm.”
“You want me to…be publicly slimy in order to tarnish my family’s reputation, therefore exposing my father for the snake he is and…I got lost at the end there.”