Tamara jumps to her feet, rushing to grab a towel.
I freeze, mortified. Absolutely unqualified to be living this moment. Chaos erupts, and I spring into the world’s worst apology.
“It’s okay,” Mason says calmly, standing to blot his jeans. “No harm done.”
“No harm done?” I blurt, lunging for a napkin. “I just baptized yourdickin Pinot Noir!”
Silence. Absolute silence.
“I mean—notyourdick. Well, technically your dick. But not—God. Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”
Lulu starts choking and Rory slides under the table. Eli puts his head in his hands.
“Ispilled,” I say, still spiraling. “The wine. I didn’t—fuck Mason—I mean no, I absolutely didnot meanfuck Mason… ohGod.” I’m out of my chair now, reaching helplessly across the table like I can vacuum this moment out of existence. “I wasn’t trying! I mean, Iwas, in the sense I meant to drink it, obviously, because that’s what people do with wine—drink it, not hurl it across the table like some kind of deranged sommelier—”
“Frankie,” Tamara says gently, towel in hand.
“—but it wasn’t like atargetedthing, even though now it looks targeted because it went straight to your—fuck—I swear I wasn’t thinking about your—your lap! Or your legs, or what’sbetweenyour—”
The sound of Logan’s wheeze distracts me.
His face is turned to the wall as he cries tears of laughter into his napkin, while Eli is stock-still, gaping at me. Leah fusses with towels, while Herb and the girls re-set the table.
But Mason is perfectly, utterly still.
He hasn’t moved since the wine hit and I started babbling the world’s most unhinged apology into existence. His eyes are locked on mine, as if every single puzzle piece from my weird display since he arrived just clicked into place.
“I’m so sorry. I’m just gonna…” I motion toward the hallway, ready to start a new life in the woods. “Uhh, go freshen up.”
And then I move toward the bathroom faster than a firetruck.
Chapter eight
Mason
Leah’s carefully folded tree-shaped serviettes are now just vaguely damp triangles.
Rory’s crawling out from under the table, Logan is still laughing into his fist, and Eli looks like he aged ten years in under a minute.
I barely had time to process the voice I was hearing before she excused herself in a whirl of garbled apologies, and I haven’t moved since. Because I’m still trying to breathe.
I knew the second she spoke.
Not earlier, when she looked at me weird, or when she refused to make eye contact. That was just confusing. But when she finally opened her mouth, it hit me all at once.
Someone passes me a fresh napkin. I nod in thanks, blotting at the edge of my pants like I haven’t just had a full-blown revelation detonate in the center of my chest.
Redhead. Graphic designer from Toronto. Looked at me like I’d shattered her entire reality just by breathing. Weirdly mute until she spilled wine on my crotch and monologued like a woman possessed. I’d know that voice anywhere.
RedRiot.
The one I’ve been listening to in bed, in the truck, on long shifts and quiet nights. The one I ghosted like an absolute piece of shit. That voice is attached toher.
Frankie. Tamara’s sister. Herb’s semi daughter-in-law.
Jesus Christ.
And what makes this even worse is I already thought she was hot as hell.
