I’d invite her every weekend if I could. Move her in and?—
Fuck, I couldn’t get too far ahead of myself. I should push it off. Skip a weekend. But in this case, I was the anti-Goldilocks. Every weekend was too much, but at the same time, it was not enough. Damn.
Buried balls deep in her wasn’t the place to think rationally. “Next weekend, Goldilocks.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ruby
Every time I looked at the stool on the edge of the bar, my face burned. I scurried past to deliver two blackberry bourbons to Jason and his daughter.
“Thanks, Ruby,” he said. “How’s Tenor?”
Questions about Tenor caught me off guard. People still thought we were steadily dating, while in reality, things were new. Whatever those things were.
Were they new—or just slow? Plodding? Tentative? I’d like to think new, but Tenor set the pace and he made bourbon, a spirit that had to age for years to be called a bourbon. I functioned at the speed of a viral post, and he worked with aging barrels.
I smiled and went for a general answer. “I’m trying to keep him out of trouble.”
Jason barked out a laugh. “It’s a tough job with that kid.”
I took their empties and went back behind the counter. My phone buzzed. I squinted at the screen. At least five tennis emojis were next to Dad’s message.
Dad: Ready to take me on?
I scanned the tables. Everyone had refreshed or half-full drinks.
Me: When?
Dad: When can your new man join? What’s his name again?
Me: Taking it slow. Don’t know that we’re at meet-the-parents level yet.
Dad: Have you met his?
I chewed on my lower lip. If I said yes, he’d get pushy. If I said no, well, I hated lying.
Me: I’ll talk to him. Mom’s not back yet anyway.
Dad: Did you hear she ditched Dave?
Me: Daniel?
I had actually thought Mom would try to make it work with Daniel. The only guy who was a constant in her life was Dad. How hard was that for her?
Dad: Whatever his name is, he’s gone. Tell your guy we’ll take it easy on him.
Me: No you won’t.
He replied with a bunch of laughing emojis.
Smiling, I looked up when the entrance door whooshed open. I caught myself before I could grimace.
“Oh, Crock— Uh, Cara. Brock. Hi.” I snatched the rag from the sink and swiped at the already pristine counter. “How was the honeymoon?”
“Ugh.” Cara rolled her eyes and took a seat on a stool. “Hot. Who goes to Jamaica in the summer?”
“But we barely left the room,” Brock added, his voice low and suggestive.
