“Not in Bunyan,” I said.
His eyes blazed. “That’s why I need you. I can’t stay old Mr. Laurence’s grandson for the rest of my life.”
“And I won’t be young Mr. Laurence’s wife.”
“So you said.” His tone was bitter.
I swallowed and looked away. My sister had joined the pool players, good ol’ boys in flannel shirts, feed caps, and various stages of drunk, playing a drinking game: miss a shot, take a shot. The tables around them were littered with empty beer bottles and dirty glasses. A tall, bearded dude at the bar said something to the bartender, who shook his head.
Trey followed my gaze and then turned back to me, his face tight. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Who?”
“The guy from the blog. You’re dumping me for the guy with the tattoos. That old cook, Wolfgang Fuck, whoever the hell he is. Wherever he came from.”
“His name is Eric Bhaer.” Distracted, I watched Amy toss back a shot while her new pals hollered encouragement. “And he’s not an old cook, he’s a talented, passionate, incredibly accomplished chef with his own restaurant. Anyway, that’s over.”
Trey’s fingers gripped mine against the cold glass. “Then there’s still a chance for us.”
I regarded him across the table, my oldest pal, my closest coconspirator. Who would I be without Trey? For years, we’d laughed and studied and played together, gotten each other in and out of trouble. But this was one stupid thing I wasn’t going to let myself get talked into.
I had loved three men in my life. My father, who made me feel smart and special. Trey, who made me feel upbeat and happy. And Eric, who had made me feel... whole. Maybe I didn’t have the stuff to make a real relationship work. To make it last. But I knew now how it should feel. And I didn’t feel that way with Trey.
Gently, I slid my hand away. “No.”
Something flickered in his face. He drew his breath. “Jo...”
A raucous cheer rose from the pool table.
Trey glanced over his shoulder. “Christ. What is she doing?”
Amy downed another shot and tossed her head, almost as if she were aware of his gaze. Stroking her cue, she sauntered to the table. At the bar, the bearded guy sighed and shook his head.
“Yeah, baby,” somebody yelled.
There were leers and whistles as she bent over to take her shot. Planted her feet. Wiggled her hips in that short, tight skirt. The guy behind her grabbed her ass, and she straightened, whirled, and cracked her cue over his head.
Oh shit.
Trey shouted. I lurched from the booth at the same moment Bearded Guy launched from the bar, muscling in between Amy and the guy she’d just clobbered.
Chairs scraped—customers pushing to their feet, jostling to get closer or away. Beer spilled. A woman screamed. Her boyfriend threw a punch at one of the pool players, who swung back.Damn it, damn it, damn it.Breathless, I shoved through a blur of bodies, beer, and sweat,desperate to get to Amy. I threw my arm around her. Bearded Guy had grabbed her elbow on the other side and was hauling her toward the door. I hung on, looking back for Trey. He was at the bar, his wallet out.
“She with you?” I heard the bartender ask.
“Yes.”
“Get her out of here.”
We were already out, pushing through the door, spilling into the sputtering neon light of the bar sign. Amy wobbled as the cold air hit her. Among the pickups in the parking lot, Trey’s low-slung Italian sports car was easy to spot. We crunched toward it over the gravel, our breath fogging in the dark.
“Thank you,” I said to Bearded Guy. Was he the bouncer? He looked vaguely familiar.
He frowned down at me. “Does your ma know you girls are here?”
Thanksgiving, I thought. He’d come to our house for Thanksgiving dinner.
Amy hiccupped. “Momma’s in the hospital.”
