He was starting to get annoyed himself. Whether it was a reflex sneaking in to cover up his guilt was something he would examine later. “I wouldn’t just give out your number. Besides, Jo said she’d give his number to you, just to be safe.”
“Spit it out,” she demanded, pulling up the bodice of her dress. Settling it into place, she strained to do up the zipper by herself, but when he reached to help, she batted his hand away. “I know there’s more, or you wouldn’t look like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.”
“I told him to stay away from you,” he finally blurted out, and yeah, he was pissed as well now—pissed at himself. “I don’t want another man sniffing around you while we’re together.”
“You are unbelievable.” Zipper half done up, Meg slid off the bed, smoothing the skirt of her dress with both hands. Turning to face him, she planted both hands on her hips. “That was so not your place.”
“So, what, you like this guy?” John furrowed his brow. “’Cause I’m pretty sure you sent him packing and came with me instead. So what’s the big deal?”
Meg closed her eyes, and a strangled scream of frustration emerged from her throat.
“The big deal is that I offered you a present—me.” Pinching her lips together, she shook her head, and something very close to panic snaked through his gut. No. She wasn’t ending it, was she? Not yet. “You need to treat that with respect, or what are we doing here?”
Stomping across the room, she slid into her wedge heels, grabbed her knockoff designer purse. He scrambled off the bed, following her, but she pointed at him, her stabbing finger just daring him to come even a step closer.
“Don’t.”
Shit. He’d screwed up here. Big-time.
“Meg, tell me how to fix this.” His mouth was dry. “How do I make this right?”
She just shook her head and exited, slamming the door behind her. John was left with an erection the size of the Empire State Building and guilt swimming greasily in his gut.
For the first time in his life, he’d struck out with a woman. And more, it was entirely, one hundred percent his fault.
SHE NEEDED HER catering van, but every time she tried to park it she wished she drove something smaller. This driveway wasn’t big to begin with. Add in the various vehicles jammed like sardines in the driveway of the house she’d grown up in, and it was like squeezing ten pounds of potatoes into an eight-pound sack.
She managed to eke out a sliver of space behind a maroon sedan. From the garage she heard Metallica, volume turned up high, and knew that the full driveway meant that Beth was powering through an equally full day of repairs and maintenance in the mechanic shop she ran out of their garage.
She wouldn’t bother her. Instead, she grabbed the heavy rubber tote from the back of her van, arm muscles straining as she closed the van doors with her foot. Lugging it to the house, she set it down with relief, then dragged it through the front door and into the kitchen.
Prying off the lid, she started to remove the Tupperware cartons of leftovers from her commercial kitchen. She jumped when a voice came from behind her.
“A delivery came for you.” Meg squeaked with alarm, whirling to find Amy standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Gasping, she clasped a hand to her heart.
“You startled me.” She eyed the bottle of whiskey in Amy’s hands—the same kind she’d brought to John’s hotel room last night. The pear one. When hope sprouted in her chest, she tried to pull it out, but like a weed, it wouldn’t be uprooted. “Are you home for lunch? Good timing.”
Checking one of the containers she was unpacking, she slid it across the kitchen island to her sister, who placed the bottle of whiskey in front of Meg before checking out the contents of the Tupperware.
“Vietnamese dumplings?” Amy cooed with approval as she opened a drawer and pulled out a fork. “Come to me, my precious.”
“Aren’t you going to heat those up?” Meg grimaced as her sister speared a cold dumpling on her fork and shoved it into her mouth.
“Aren’t you going to check out your delivery?” Amy replied with her mouth full. She poked at the ribbon around the neck of the bottle. “There’s a card.”
Sighing, Meg traced fingers over the paper, then looked at her sister with narrowed eyes. “The envelope is open.”
“Is it?” Amy blinked at her innocently as she chose another dumpling. “I wonder how that happened.”
“Dude.” Meg frowned at her sister but ultimately was too tired to lecture her. She hadn’t slept well. She probably shouldn’t have even been driving; she was still so keyed up.
She was irritated at John’s high-handedness. But most of her anger was at herself.
She knew the score—he was leaving. She shouldn’t have had to keep reminding herself of this, but her traitorous emotions weren’t listening.
Tugging the card off the ribbon, she pulled the small note out of the envelope, keeping it angled away from Amy. Why, she wasn’t sure, since the knowing smirk on her sister’s face confirmed that she’d already read it.
I’m sorry. A fresh bottle for a fresh start? —J.
Huffing out a breath, she shoved the note into her pocket, then turned away from the bottle to finish loading the leftovers into the fridge.
“You should call him,” Amy offered as she chucked her empty container and fork in the sink. “I don’t think he’s a man who says sorry easily.”
“You should mind your own business.” She jabbed a finger in the air in Amy’s general direction. “And put your dishes in the damn dishwasher.”
“Is that minding your own business?” Amy asked innocently, though she did as requested.
“Brat,” Meg muttered as she sealed her now-empty tote back up and carried it to the front door.
“Call him!” Amy shouted after her. Meg slammed the front door in response.
Back at her van, she wrenched the back doors open and loaded the tote in. Perching on the edge for a moment to catch her breath, she ran her fingers over the pocket that held John’s note.
She was at a crossroads here. He’d stepped way out of line, and yet she knew he wouldn’t make that mistake again—he was a smart man. Did she really need to punish him, to punish them both, when she’d already proved her point?
Pulling up his contact on her phone, she called him, nerves flaring as she listened to it ring.
“How’s the whiskey?” he answered, and just hearing that voice of his, deep and rich and so damn sexy, made her a little bit weak in the knees. “Is it as juicy as a ripe pear?”
“I’m
