“She seemed terrified at the mere thought of you in her chair and like she’d rather be shot than forced to find the bravery to survive in your presence for more than four seconds,” Eris finishes for him dryly.
He clears his throat, massive shoulders shrugging. “Yeah, that.”
I contain my amusement. Mostly.
“That’s just how she shows her excitement,” I lie. “You know Almond.”
Eris snorts, but Emerson’s eyes soften and he says, so foolishly hopeful, “Maybe the appointment will make her more comfortable with me.”
I haven’t the heart to tell him that his appointment will result in many a nervous breakdown from Almond. By my estimations, it will take no less than twenty appointments before she can evenpretendto be comfortable around the behemoth that is Emerson Wright.
Eris, however, has plenty of heart for crushing his dreams. “That girl is never going to be on the same page as you, Em. You gotta move on.”
I protest, immediately and vehemently, “Or, instead ofthat, you could practice patience and hotness until she falls madly in love with you and you have cute, giant, pink-haired babies.”
Eris frowns.
Emerson blinks, a glimmer of hope growing in the depths of his irises. “I can be patient,” he says. “I can be hot.”
I nod. “Good. Yes. Do that.” I give Eris the stink eye. “Moving on is for quitters.”
Eris stink-eyes me back. “He’s going to die old and alone, and it’s going to be all your fault.”
Doubtful. Almond is shy, not stupid.
“I’m not worried about it,” I reply.
Her frown deepens.
Emerson’s hope grows.
Down the bar, my name is called.
I thank Emerson again for using his goodwill fund on me, stick my tongue out at negative-nelly Eris, and then answer the call before Fox can do more than glare at me for being too slow.
As I pour a Jack and Coke for one of my less favored regulars, I do it with a smile on my face.
Almond might kill me. But.
My bestie has a date.
Chapter Fifteen
?
Is it miscommunication if he’s being SO clear?
Fox
Relief is not a strong enough word for the emotion it’s meant to describe. Six little letters to tackle the sensation of a weight lifted, a freedom restored, a worry gone. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s all I have to offer, as insufficient as it is.
“That’s such a relief,” I tell Poem, anxiety for the state of her bank account sliding off my shoulders as I slump into my chair opposite of where she sits, primly hugging the tip jar I made for her earlier today. The apparently useless tip jar.
The irony that the tip jar is useless in part because of me is not lost on me. I regularly donate to the goodwill fund that is being put toward her now, both personally and as a business. I’ve ruined my own gesture with a different, less public gesture.
I’m glad I didn’t put the sticker gems on the jar like I wanted to, further wasting my own time.
“Yes, Captain Obvious, itisa relief.” Her eyes narrow, and her head tilts, a lock of honey falling over her exposed collarbone.
