“You hesitated.”
“I was offended by the implication.”
“You only use that tone when someone is attractive or when there’s dessert.”
“There was also a taco.”
“Annie.”
“Rachel.”
“I am trying to keep you invisible.”
“I remain extremely invisible.”
“You are a six-time award-winning country singer on an island small enough to have one grocery store.”
“Two.”
“That makes it worse.”
I got up and crossed to the mirror.
The sundress was simple. Loose at the waist. Thin straps. Nothing Savannah Brooks would wear for an appearance without three fittings and a lighting test.
I liked it.
“I’m having dinner,” I said.
“With the attractive professional.”
“She may not be attractive.”
“You already lost that argument.”
“It’s not dinner. It’s conch fritters.”
“Ah. Casual seafood. Famously nonromantic.”
“Rachel.”
She sighed.
The sound held years of managing me through interviews, tours, awards, breakups, and one brief period when I had become convinced I should start making my own candles.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I will.”
“No photos.”
“I know.”
“No posting.”
“I know.”
“No crowded places.”
