CHAPTER TEN
By the time I’ve exchanged my dress for jeans and a tank top, I’ve almost talked myself out of confronting James. Key word: almost. At this point, I’m a missile that’s already been launched. My momentum is too strong to be overridden by silly things like common sense and consequences.
There’s a Tesla SUV parked in James’ spot. It’s his second fancy car, one I don’t see all that often, and I’m trying to decide how satisfying it would be to pull a Carrie Underwood when I hear him call my name.
That didn’t take long. So much for taking a Louisville Slugger to both headlights.
I turn to find him walking out of the club and heading straight for me. I’d assumed he would take longer with his golfing buddies; maybe they didn’t play the full course, or maybe he cut things off early. Either way, I’m happy I didn’t have to wait all night. As it is, the sun is barely setting behind him. I’d probably think it was lovely if I wasn’t a burning ball of fury.
I cross my arms and lean against the side of his car.
He scowls.
I grimace with the intensity of a thousand toddlers being made to eat broccoli.
It takes him an obnoxiously long time to reach me. It’s like he’s walking the wrong way on a moving airport walkway, and I think he likes to watch me squirm. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s right in front of me. I can smell his cologne, the stuff he puts on in the morning to make women swoon. How pathetic. I inhale deeply.
“Where’s your dress?” he asks, tipping his head to the side.
“Stuffed in Ellie’s locker.”
He nods and I think…dear god, is he actually smiling right now?!
“I can see you’re furious.” He says it like he’s happy at the prospect.
I nod. “I am. Did your stupid watch detect that?”
“What exactly are you upset about?”
“Let’s recount.” I hold up my fingers and start ticking things off. “Your friend drugged me, you blamed me, you didn’t stay to see if I was okay, and you still haven’t apologized.”
“She’s not my friend.”
I throw my hands up in anger. “Who cares?! You assumed I did that to myself, and you were wrong.”
He arches a brow. “Can you blame me? It didn’t look good. You disappeared and then returned out of your mind.”
“So? You were wrong and you should have apologized.”
He nods.
I wait.
Silence.
“So…apologize!”
He smiles and steps around me. He’s going to leave, but I’m not done.
“Why were you acting like that back there?” I ask. “On the course?”
He unlocks his car, sets down his golf clubs, and then starts to fold down the back row of seats. “I was curious.”
“Curious?”
He stashes his clubs, closes the door, and turns back to me. “Yeah. Where’s your bike?”
“Locked to the rack behind the clubhouse.”
He starts to walk away, and I’m forced to follow if I want to continue the conversation.
“Curious about what?”
“What your plan was—besides refusing to look at me. It was actually pretty funny.”
I seethe.
“I wouldn’t look at you because I didn’t want to make a scene in front of your friends.”
“They’re business associates,” he clarifies as we round the side of the clubhouse.
“What does that matter?!”
“Because it’s an important distinction. Is Brian your friend?”
“Stop changing the subject!”
He points to my bike lock.
“What’s the combo?”
I cross my arms, looking every bit of four years old. “Like I’m telling you.”
The stare he levels at me could slice through granite. It seems to say, If I wanted to steal your bike, I could just buy this entire country club.
“10-17-38.”
He puts in the combo, pops the lock, and proceeds to wheel my bike back in the direction of the parking lot. I’m left to speed walk after him again.
“What are you doing?”
There are a handful of members out in the parking lot, and every one of them is watching me trail after James as he steals my bike. They do nothing.
I finally catch up with him enough to try to yank it out of his hold.
“Give me my bike, James.”
But it’s too late. We’re back at his parking spot. He pops the trunk of his Tesla and pauses for a moment, assessing something. Then he leans down and detaches the front wheel with a few flicks of his wrist. Without it in place, the bike slides easily into the trunk space. He tosses the wheel in after it and slams the door closed.
I cross my arms. “Great. You’ve stolen a bike from a woman. What’s next? Gonna go steal those little tennis balls off some granny’s walker? Or what about a rattle from a baby?”
He chuckles, shakes his head, and heads for the passenger side door. “Get in the car, Brooke.”
I can feel people watching us, completely enthralled no doubt. Soon Brian is going to wander out and join the crowd. I don’t want to get in trouble for causing a scene in the parking lot, although truthfully, that’s exactly what I had originally planned to do. I just didn’t expect James to do it for me.
He opens my door, rounds the front of the car, and gets in behind the wheel. He doesn’t have to ask me to get in again; the empty seat taunts me enough as it is. I glance back to the clubhouse and seriously contemplate booking an Uber to get home. He changes radio stations, puts the car in reverse, and before I can truly acknowledge my actions, I get in.
Neither of us speaks for the first few minutes. I sit like a statue, my arms crossed in front of my chest, my gaze laser-focused out the front window. James, by contrast, has apparently reached the highest level of nirvana. He couldn’t be more relaxed. He turns up the music and drums his thumb on the steering wheel. I bet if I glanced over, I’d even find a hint of a smile.
He drives us down the winding drive and away from the country club. I could ask him where we’re going, but alas, I’d be breaking the silence first, and I will not lose this battle. Besides, I get my answer soon enough when he pulls up in front of 24 Diner at 6th and Lamar. I’ve driven by the restaurant a million times, but I’ve never stopped for a meal.
He didn’t even ask if I was hungry. He just assumed if he parked here and hopped out of the car, I would follow along after him—and what’s more frustrating is that I do. It’s getting annoying. I feel like a puppy or a victim with Stockholm syndrome.
“Table for two please,” he says to the hostess.
She leads us to a small booth in the back of the restaurant. James stakes a claim on one side, and I take the other. The waiter swoops down on us, and James speaks up for me. “We’ll take an order of the chicken and waffles.”
I peer at him over the top of my menu.
“I’m not hungry.”
I am, but if he’s going to be difficult, then so am I.
“That’s too bad.”
He takes my menu and hands it to the waiter along with his.
We’re left to ourselves. Silence descends again, and I can’t handle it. I’ve never been around someone so infuriating. Sure, first dates are awkward, but that awkwardness is usually felt by both parties. James seems totally oblivious. He’s staring off down the hallway past my head, content within his own thoughts.
So, I try to be too.
I think over what I need to buy at the grocery store tomorrow. Chicken. Maybe some of that fancy gelato I stroll past every week and try very hard to avoid. I remind myself to text Ellie about our SoulCycle class Monday—she has a tendency to forget about them unless I hound her. All in all, I think I do a good job of ignoring him completely.
Our food arrives and my mouth waters. I’ve had chicken and waffles a few times in my life, but it’s never looked like this. In the center of a large plate sits a perfect, golden waffle. On top of that, they’ve arranged four pieces of crispy fried chicken. The smell hits me before my other senses can even catch up. I want to fall forward and face-plant into it. That’s how delicious this food smells.
James puts a quarter of the waffle and some chicken onto a spare plate and pushes it toward me.
“I know you aren’t hungry,” he says, “but if you’re going to try a bite, I’d add a little bit of the brown sugar butter.”
He points to a small bowl off to the side I hadn’t noticed due to my waffle blinders. At this point, I’m drooling out of the corner of my mouth. I’m sure in some alternate universe, Brooke 1,342 stands up, flips the table over, and skips all the way home…but in this life, I swallow my pride right before dipping my knife into the brown sugar butter and drizzling syrup all over my plate.
I’m ashamed, and I do not meet his eyes as I fork my first bite into my mouth. It is, of course, a perfect combination of chicken and waffle and butter and syrup—all the main food groups.
It’s heaven on earth.
“Oh my god,” I moan before realizing what I’m doing.
I whip my gaze to James, and thankfully he pretends like he doesn’t hear me—that is, until I notice the little smirk he’s trying to hide behind his napkin as he wipes his mouth.
I ignore him, and just to be sure the first bite wasn’t a fluke, I take another.
My plate is cleared before James has finished half of his. I dab my mouth like a proper lady and then recline against the booth.
I watch him eat, studying the meticulous way he loads his fork. One bite of waffle, one bite of chicken, one small dab of brown sugar butter—if all the parts aren’t there, he doesn’t eat it.
I smile to myself and tuck away that bit of information.
“This is my way of apologizing,” he says, pulling us out of what could now be described as pleasant silence. Funny how that happens.
I glance up to find him studying me. Our eyes lock for one heated moment, and then he looks back down at his food.
“It doesn’t come naturally to me,” he continues.
“I would have never guessed,” I tease.
“It’s something I want to work on.”
I smirk. “No time like the present.”
He laughs, sets his fork down, and then leans back, hooking his elbow on the back of the booth. Reclined like that, he looks every bit the confident businessman, aloof and unattainable. “You’re right.”
I wait, and he continues, “I owe you an apology.”
I squint as if I’m thinking really hard. “Yeah, I still don’t think those are quite the words I’m looking for.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What was that?”
He clears his throat then leans forward like he’s about to divulge state secrets. “I’m sorry.”
The table seems too small now with him leaning toward me. While I probably smell like I just dipped myself in brown sugar butter, James smells like his woodsy cologne. I’m hyperaware of that scent and the way our legs are all but twined underneath the table.
“I accept your apology, under one condition.”
My smile is wicked and from the gleam in his eye, I can tell he likes it.
“What’s that?”
I pick up my fork and smirk. “I want another one of these. No sharing.”
…
After dinner, we don’t talk about where we’re headed next, but I think he’s taking me home. We head north on Lamar, away from downtown. In 10 minutes, he’ll drop me off outside the co-op and this weird exchange will be over. I wanted an apology from him, and now I have it. Beyond that, I don’t think there’s any reason for James to see me again. I don’t think we’re friends. He wanted me to be a pawn in his game, and I fulfilled my duty. Sure, I’ve wondered what would have happened that night if Celeste hadn’t slipped something into my drink. James and I might have enjoyed the party, and maybe at some point he would have admitted to inviting me to attend for reasons that didn’t include buttering up a potential hire.
Beyond a few smoldering glances and the compliment paid to me before the party, James hasn’t made it clear that he even sees me as an attractive woman. By now, most other guys would have made their feelings toward me a bit more obvious, but it seems James does more of his thinking above the belt.
I wonder if the age difference is too much for him. I tried to find information about his last girlfriend, the one Ellie said had a drug problem, but it didn’t look like they were anything serious. She was only pictured alongside him at one or two events before she reportedly checked herself into Passages Malibu, the luxury rehab center where all the celebrities pretend to get their life in order. I don’t get the feeling he’s lovesick over her.
He presses the brake and I glance over. His eyes meets mine, and there’s something there—questions in his gaze that mimic my own. I think he’s going to ask me something, but instead, he turns his attention back to the road.
So, I take matters into my own hands.
“Are you dating anyone right now?”
He accelerates.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t have taken you to that party if I was.”
“But what about your last relationship? Was it a tough breakup?”
“Not at all. I haven’t dated anyone serious in a few years.”
Even better.
“Why?” he asks.
“Asking for a friend.”
“Oh, okay.” He’s willing to play along. “Is your friend cute?”
I glance out the window so he can’t see my smile. By now, the sun has set and the bright lights of the businesses along Lamar whip past us.
“Blindingly.”
“Does she work at the club?”
I chuckle. “Yes, unfortunately.”
“Is she interested in me?”
His question catches me off guard.
“Who knows? You’d have to ask her,” I reply tentatively.
That surprises him. He does one of those curious huh noises like I’ve just told him something incredibly interesting.
I turn back toward him. “She doesn’t know you very well. If she were interested in you at this point, it would be for superficial reasons, like your wealth. Hell, she might just want a membership to Twin Oaks,” I tease. “You have to be careful these days.”
His gaze slices over me. “Maybe she finds me attractive and it has nothing to do with my country club membership.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “Maybe.” But because I feel like I revealed too much, I add, “But she really wants that membership.”
He laughs as he pulls up to a red light. We’re about to turn right and head into the heart of north campus; there’s only another minute or two until he drops me off. Suddenly, I want to stall, but beyond asking him to take me back to his place, I can’t think of a good reason. I could suggest that we continue our night somewhere else, a bar maybe? But he’s still dressed in his golf clothes and my jeans are pretty casual. I just threw them on to get me back home from the club.
I tap my finger on my knee, trying to come up with something. We could take a walk somewhere or do something outside. Peter Pan Mini-Golf would be perfect for our ensembles, but it’s all the way in the opposite direction. I should have suggested it when we left the diner.
“James? Do you want to—”
Words are spilling out of my mouth before I even have a solid plan. I’m kind of hoping the second half of the sentence will come to me through divine intervention, but it never has the chance.
Bright headlights expand behind us so quickly that we both twist to look back at the precise moment a car slams into James’ Tesla. I whip forward from the intensity of the impact, arms flailing to catch myself against the dashboard as we’re pushed into the intersection, right in the way of oncoming traffic.
“JAMES!”
I scream just before another car comes into the intersection and slams into the side of us. We spin out, fishtailing in the center of the chaos. The airbags deploy with a loud POP, so quickly that I feel nothing, see nothing. One second I’m aware of my screams, and the next my ears are ringing so loudly I can’t hear myself breathe. White powder fills the air like snow and the sharp smell of chemicals stings my nostrils. I collect parts of the scene, quickly wondering if more will come or if the crash is over.
One of my hands grips the door. The other is on James’ arm, clinging for dear life.
My chest rises and falls so quickly I don’t feel as if I get any air at all.
I squeeze my eyes closed again, scared it’s not over.
James is saying something, but I can’t listen. I blink and blink until I can focus beyond the white powder in the air. There’s wreckage sprinkled across the road in front of us, another car, badly damaged, a man stumbling out of it. His head is bleeding.
James covers my hand with his and squeezes. It’s the first feeling that comes back to me.
“Are you okay? BROOKE, ARE YOU OKAY?”
He’s shouting at me now, so worried I’m hurt.
Am I?
I look down and assess that I still have two legs and two arms. I stare at the deflated airbag hanging limp in front of me, now useless.
“What happened?”
The sound of my voice surprises me. I’m crying—no, sobbing—and though I try to plug the waterworks, it’s no use.
“Brooke. Brooke. Brooke.”
He says my name so many times that it doesn’t sound like a word anymore. I turn and he cups my face between his hands. His dark, worried gaze darts back and forth between my eyes, desperately trying to focus.
“I think I’m okay,” I repeat, holding my hand up to grip his. My other hand is still on his arm, stuck there. I’ve probably branded his skin, but I don’t think I could move it if I tried.
Police sirens wail somewhere in the distance. The lights from an ambulance flicker through the front windshield, and now that the powder is starting to settle, it’s easier to see just how bad the wreck was.
A fist raps on James’ window. It’s a paramedic asking if we’re okay, telling us not to move until they assess our injuries.
“Check her,” James insists. “Check her. I’m fine.”
The next hour is spent being checked out by EMS (Yes, I can feel and move all my limbs. No, I don’t have a headache.) and relaying our version of events to the police officers. There were four cars involved in the crash, and multiple witnesses who can attest to what happened. The man who slammed into us was taken to the emergency room before I got to see him. I suspect he was driving drunk, but overheard whispers from a few of the medics clarify that wasn’t the case, something about prescription drugs that shouldn’t have been mixed.
After we speak with the police and James shares his insurance and contact information with the other drivers, we’re free to leave—except James’ car is totaled, along with my bike. I don’t bring it up at the moment because it’s the least of anyone’s concerns, but when the driver slammed into the back of us, he basically squashed my bike like a pancake. For the time being, if I need to get somewhere, it’s going to have to be on foot or by bus.
While James deals with the tow truck driver, I stand off to the side, out of the way of the police officers and firefighters cleaning up the wreckage on the road. After his damaged Tesla is loaded onto the back of a truck, he comes over to get me.
“C’mon, the driver is going to drop us off.”
James takes my hand in his and together, we walk toward the tow truck. The cab has one long bench seat, so I scoot to the middle and look for a seatbelt, panicking that there might not be one.
“Here.”
James holds it out for me and I loop it across my body, hissing as it rubs the raw skin across my chest. My only injuries were abrasions from the seatbelt in James’ car as I lurched forward during the crash. The medics checked the bruising and redness along the path of the seatbelt, but there wasn’t much else they could do for it besides offering me some over-the-counter pain reliever, which I refused. Now that the adrenaline and shock are wearing off, I regret my decision.
“Does it hurt?” James asks as he buckles up beside me.
The driver hops in on the other side and I shake my head. “It’s not too bad.”
“Where to, folks?”
“Head toward Mount Bonnell Road and I’ll direct you from there,” James replies.
I stay silent, content to let James take control of the next few minutes. When I blink, the wreck replays in my mind. The point of impact flashes again and again until I’m desperate to focus on something else, like the fact that James is still holding my hand.
Fortunately, James and the driver carry on their own conversation for the short drive, and once we get closer, James directs him into a gated community I’ve heard whispers about at the country club: Island at Mount Bonnell Shores.
“Huh,” the driver says, leaning forward to inspect the sprawling estates surrounding us. “I always wondered who lived here.”
“It’s just up ahead,” James says, ignoring the man’s awestruck tone as he points to the left. “There.”
We pull up in front of a gated estate sitting on a few oak-covered acres. The house isn’t visible from the road, but the dark-stained wooden fence running around the property and the mid-century address numbers give the property a clean, modern look.
The driver pulls up to the curb and James hops out, reaching back for my hand so he can help me jump down. I step out onto the street and realize right away that the air smells different here—fresher—and I swear there’s a slight breeze where none existed before. I smile, because of course James would have waterfront property on Lake Austin. Every house in this exclusive community probably has its own boat dock.
James hammers out the details about his Tesla with the tow truck driver. Cash is exchanged, the driver tips his hat, and then he leaves James and me standing on the curb in front of his house.
“I like your fence,” I say with a small smile. I come from wealth, but James’ is a kind that exists in another stratosphere, the kind that intimidates most people—me included.
He shakes his head and starts to head up the paved walkway.
“C’mon. I think we could both use a drink.”