BARTLE-BEE: Sounds incredible. What restaurant?
I shoot her the address, drumming my thumbs on the side of the phone.
BARTLE-BEE: OMG MEL! This place looks incredible. How are you going to get us in?
MEL: I have a plan…
And I hope to freaking god I pull it off. My phone buzzes, Pete’s name flashing up, and I quickly swipe to answer.
“The family table is free tonight, Tinker Bell. It’s yours if you want it.”
“You’re amazing. Did you know that?”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been told so,” he laughs. Oh. Bile churns in my gut. Okay. I didn’t need to know that. “Clients tell me frequently when I work my lawyerly magic.”
Oh. That’s okay then.
“So, I don’t need a dollar figure. Just a ballpark. Do I need to sell a kidney?”
Pete’s rich laugh fills my ears, doing interesting things south of my stomach.
“I happen to like you with both kidneys, Tinker Bell. Don’t worry about the price. This is my treat.”
“I can’t let you do that,” I say automatically. The idea of him paying for my friend and me to go to dinner feels a little too …mistress-y. That’s New Bee’s dream, not mine.
“Sure you can,” he shoots back. “And this Friday, I’m taking you out to my sports bar.”
My nose wrinkles. I can’t think of a worse date. “Ugh, fine. I see that as a fair trade. Am I going to have to watch sports?”
“There will be five TV screens for you to choose the best viewing angle of the sports.”
“Actually, I don’t think this is a fair trade. I think I’m getting the worse end of the deal.”
“How about I have them pick your wine for you? Match it to the meal, so it’s a real treat?”
“Okay. That would be worth sports-ing for.”
“That’s not a word.”
“A sports bar isn’t a date.”
“What if the night ends with me balls deep in you?”
Isn’t he at work? My cheeks flame at the idea someone might hear his end of the conversation.
“That might make it a date,” I whisper. Pete chuckles again.
“I think that definitely makes it a date. You have fun with your friend tonight, and I’ll pick you up from your place at seven on Friday.”
“Okay.”
“And answer my texts.”
“Always.”
“You better.”
He hangs up, and I grin to myself. He ends almost every conversation since my text stutter three weeks ago with an order to answer his texts. I haven’t missed a single one since. I don’t want to. Texting with Pete is the same as talking with Pete - it makes me smile.
Shit. Bee.
MEL: Got us a reservation. Meet me at the hostess station at seven.
BARTLE-BEE: I’m so excited! See you then.
I pick out a nice dress and splurge on a cab. I don’t know if there is a bus stop near, and I don’t want to arrive looking windblown.
I’m a few minutes early, but Bee is already here, waiting in the foyer, looking around excitedly.
“Mel! Hi!” She offers me an effusive hug. Okay? That’s…different than usual. Much more like the old Bee. My eyes drop to her left hand, but her flashy diamond ring is still sitting there.
I turn to the hostess with a smile. “Uh, Mel Larch.”
She nods, her eyes skating over the reservations. Her smile becomes a little fixed, and she frowns.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any reservations under that name.”
Beside me, Bee is fidgeting with her purse, clearing her throat. Oh god.
“Uh, Pete Rampwood said he organized it,” I whisper, leaning closer to the hostess, my cheeks flaming. At the name Rampwood, she taps her screen again, a giggly smile crossing her face.
“If I said the reservation was under a Disney name, would that mean anything to you?” she asks. Okay, I get why she wouldn’t be asking me the exact name, in case I’m some weirdo, but… wait.
“He put the reservation under Tinker Bell?” I hiss, my cheeks flaming now. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Right this way,” the hostess giggles. I know I’m not imagining that she’s looking at me differently. Bee is looking at me differently, too.
She gasps as she spots the view of the marina, and I remember Pete deliberately sitting with his back to the view so I could enjoy it. I move to take his seat now.
“Apart from cashews, any allergies?” the waiter who has popped up asks. Bee shakes her head, her eyes narrowing at me. I quickly shake my head too, and he walks away.
“Who is Pete Rampwood?” Bee asks in an excited, low voice as soon as we’re alone. “How does he know about your cashew allergy? Why does he call you Tinker Bell? How did he get us a reservation here? I checked. This place is impossible to get into. Why is this table so big?”
I answer the last question first – it’s the easiest. Glancing around the large table that could easily seat six to eight, depending on how elbow-to-elbow you are, I grin.
“His family has a standing reservation.”
Bee’s eyebrows shoot up, her no-longer-smoky eyes wide. I miss her heavy eyeliner look. It really worked for her.
“His family?”
“Yeah. The Rampwoods.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“Neither had I, but Pete’s pretty great.”
Bee looks pointedly around, sighing contentedly at the view. “If he gets us in a place like this, he’s definitely pretty great.”
My lips press together, but I bite my tongue. If you asked me to list all the things that made Pete pretty great, I’d start with his tongue, his spanking abilities, the way he looks like a handsome, mild-mannered guy but then runs hot under that suit, and every other thing about him before I said his name, his family and his money. Every. Other. Thing.
Bee asks more about Pete, but I don’t feel like sharing his deliciousness. It would feel tainted. I carefully switch the conversation to her wedding – it’s almost here, only another few weeks – nodding and offering comments.
I mechanically sip the delicious wine they bring, barely tasting it. My mind is swirling, and my heart is heavy. I know I said I would do whatever it takes to stay in Bee’s life, but it still stings to think maybe the reason she’s suddenly burning hot after being so cold for the last two weeks is that I’m dating Pete Rampwood. Not because I’m me. I don’t want to think that, but I can’t help it, and it hurts.