“Are you okay?” he asked, smoothing down my hair.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, feeling shaky and embarrassed. “I’m not some porcelain-skinned, high-society Victorian lady. I’m from pioneer-woman stock. When I’m thirty-five, I’ll have hips as wide as a Volkswagen, but I’ll plow a field from dawn ‘til dusk.”
Beck ran a thumb over my chin. “You should have told me he was bothering you. I would have taken care of it.”
“Seemed like overkill.”
“We told her,” Annie and Enola said, crowding around him. “We told her to tell you because you would get rid of him.”
Beck hugged each of them.
“You can always tell me anything,” he assured them. Then he looked up at me. “Seriously, Tess, I’m here for you. We’re family. We look out for each other.”
Family?
Um, no. Along with no dating, I did not do family. I didn’t trust family. Family claimed to be family until, oops, never mind, we didn’t mean it. We’re just going to throw you out with only the clothes on your back.
“Right,” I said, feeling a pit in my stomach.
“Can we have brunch?” Enola asked.
“I think Tess absolutely needs brunch,” Beck said, wrapping an arm around my waist because, uh, why? Because he felt sorry for me? Because he felt possessive? Because he felt like we were family?
Don’t mind me. I’m just over here having an existential crisis.
“Tess said she doesn’t like brunch,” Annie said, leading us to the street.
“You?” Beck asked in exaggerated shock as he led me out of the alley, strong arm firm around my waist. No, it wasn’t a fluke, he definitely was pressing me against him like we were boyfriend and girlfriend.
Lovers.
Dating.
Ahhhgggrrrh!
I almost wished he would have fired me.
You led him on; you were flirting, I scolded myself.
Beck’s hand came slowly up my back, rubbing circles between my tense shoulder blades. It was an achingly familiar gesture.
Would it really be so bad if you did date Beck?
What the—
Yes! It would be bad! Because he is your boss!
“I like brunch,” I said, trying to keep it together. “But not the crazy brunch rush when half of Manhattan wakes up hungover and stumbles down the street to demand extra hollandaise from servers who got off their last shift at three in the morning and have to turn around and come in at eight for brunch service.”
“You just have to go to a nice brunch place,” Beck said mildly, helping me into his car.
“I’m not dressed for a nice brunch,” I retorted.
“You look beautiful,” he assured me.
I tried to calm down as the car drove us in the direction of Central Park. We pulled up in front of the Porter restaurant.
The hostess led us right to a table; we didn’t even have to wait.
