I couldn’t remember where we had our portfolio meetings before the Southern opened, and it had only been a month. It seemed like my entire existence broke off and fell into the ocean a few nights ago, right here at the Southern.
I pulled up to the valet and hopped out, smoothing my untucked oxford and making sure my Pumas were tied.
A young brunette wearing a black slinky dress and red stilettos greeted me inside. “Welcome to the Southern.”
I ran my hand over my scruff and tried to scan the room behind her.
“Two?” she guessed.
“Actually, one.”
“Did you want to eat in our bar area? We serve a full menu in there.” She stepped out from behind the hostess stand, willing me to eye her up.
“No, thank you. I’d like a table for one. In Claire’s section.”
“Oh.” Her face fell and she went back to her iPad. “I don’t think we have anything in Claire’s section. It’s full right now, and we have a window-table reservation coming in shortly.”
I dug into my pocket and pulled out a crisp Ben Franklin. When I laid it on the hostess stand and gave it a tap, her gaze lifted again to size me up.
“Let me see. Maybe I can move the reservation.”
“You do that.”
My patience was wearing thin. The place was busy, but not jam-packed enough that Jules wouldn’t spot me. I wanted to sneak into her section. Lord knew, she’d protest or run out of here.
I kept my gaze on the floor, dreaming of Jules and her legs. Her long legs were now a little curvier, more muscular.
“Right this way.”
I avoided making eye contact with the rest of the room as the brunette led me to my table in a quiet corner next to the window. Clearly, the window-reservation people were going to be unhappy.
Oh well. Fuck ’em.
“Thanks.” I dismissed the hostess, sat, grabbed my menu and hid behind it, pretending to study the offerings as if there was going to be a test later.
“Welcome to the Southern. I’m Claire.”
I dropped the menu slowly, revealing my face. It was an old trick straight out of an eighties movie, but a useful one.
“Drew,” she said my name on a breath, then practically hissed, “Come on, I’m working.” She glanced around the room as if worried we had an audience.
“I had to see you, Jules,” I said, whispering her real name.
“I can’t do this. I need this job.”
“I know. I’ll wait. Look at me—I haven’t slept all week, and I need to talk with you.”
“I’m not done until eleven tonight.”
“I can wait right here. Why don’t you bring me a Scotch and soda?”
She stepped a little closer and pretended to take notes on a notepad as she said, “I have to go home after my shift. I’m not some young coed who can fall into bed with you. I have Darla.”
“Shit, you think I just want to fuck you?” I slammed my fist onto the table, furious with myself for forgetting child care and shit.
“You didn’t think about that, did you? About her?”
I’d forgotten how well Jules could read me. “Where is Darla? Who’s with her? This parenting thing is all new to me.”
