Chapter Thirteen
Spring moved in. Flowers popped, leaves unfurled, and with gratitude, Morgan put away her winter gear.
While her grandmother wouldn’t accept rent, Morgan knew she’d never refuse flowers. Her trip to the garden center flooded her with bittersweet memories of Nina. But having her friend’s voice whispering in her ear as she wandered, as she chose plants brought comfort.
She spent a happy morning and afternoon selecting, buying, hauling, designing the arrangements in pots pulled out of the garden shed, placing colorful annuals in the beds with the sprouting perennials.
When her phone alarm signaled, she put her tools away, went in to clean up and change for work. A good, productive day, she thought. Not looking for something to do but having something to do.
Her day only got happier when she came down and heard excited voices.
“Oh, look at those colors! And how she’s set those pots together that way, at different heights. Like a showpiece.”
“I tell you what, Audrey, I meant to throw that old, rickety stand away. Look at it now.”
“Spray paint and new screws,” Morgan said as she stepped out onto the back patio. “You like it?”
“It’s wonderful.” Audrey leaned over to draw in the scent of heliotrope. “What a wonderful surprise to come home to. And the flowers you planted out front, all so pretty. You must’ve worked all day.”
“It was fun. I didn’t get to all of it.” She gestured to the remaining flats. “But I thought you’d both like to have some fun, and some say in where.”
“Did you buy the garden center out?” Olivia wondered.
“Not nearly. They’re loaded. I didn’t have a chance to get the patio furniture out and cleaned up, but I can do that tomorrow.”
“I’d appreciate that, Morgan. I appreciate this.”
Still glowing, Audrey looked around. “I had no idea you knew how to do all this.”
“Nina taught me about plants. And when you’re on a tight budget, things like wire brushes, sandpaper, and paint are best friends. Anyway, I’ve got to get to work. See you tomorrow.”
“She looked so happy,” Audrey murmured.
“She did. She’s coming along. She’s a girl who needs to do, and she’s doing.”
Audrey brushed her hand over the clouds of sweet alyssum spilling out of one of the pots. “I really didn’t know she could do this, not like this.”
“Now you do.”
For a moment, Audrey took her mother’s hand in a squeeze. “I guess there was a lot about me you didn’t know.”
“Daughters grow up and make their own. That’s how it should be.”
“I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t been able to come back and make my own here.”
“You were, and you have.”
“I know she may not stay, but … I hope the time we’ve got here, together, closes the distance. The distance is my fault.”
“Stop it.”
“It is,” Audrey insisted. “I should’ve done better. I had choices, and she didn’t. And I know she wouldn’t have come back here, to me, not to me, if she’d had a choice.”
“Like the lads from Liverpool said, all you need is love. Maybe I’d add comfortable shoes and an adult beverage after a long day, but love matters most. She loves you, Audrey.”
“She does. I’m so lucky she does. Morgan and I, we became different people apart from each other. Now we’ve got this time to, well, grow together like the flowers she planted. I’m going to treasure every minute of that time.”
“So will I. Why don’t we take a look in the shed before dinner, see what else we meant to toss away that girl can play with, since it makes her happy?”
Instead of heading home when he left the resort, Miles detoured to Jake’s. His friend lived on the edge of town in a compact two-story frame house with a small, covered front porch.
Miles had helped Jake build the deck off the back—and the pitched roof over it so Jake could grill year-round.
In Jake’s world, if it wasn’t takeout or delivery, it went on the grill.
When he pulled up, Miles noted the duo of hanging pots spilling something colorful above the porch rail. And that meant Jake’s mother had stopped by at some point.
Jake would water them, out of duty to his mother—and a healthy fear of her wrath.
As much at home there as anywhere, Miles walked up to the front door, and in.
He could see straight back to the kitchen, where Jake stood at the counter, slapping ground beef into a hamburger patty.
“Hey. Want a beer?”
“Now that you mention it.”
Miles opened the fridge, which held the beer, a quart of milk, Cokes, a jug of the mango juice Jake was inexplicably fond of, and a single lonely stick of butter.
“I just got in from breaking up a dispute over dog shit in Anne Vincent’s newly tilled flower bed. You know her?”
“No.”
“Avoid if possible. Convinced the shit had come out of her neighbor’s Pomeranian—that’s Gigi—Ms. Vincent scooped up the poop and proceeded to deposit it on her neighbor’s front steps. As witnessed by said neighbor’s eight-year-old son. That’s Charlie Potter.”
“Don’t know him either.”
“Charlie informed his mother—that would be Kate Potter.”
Miles took a seat at the counter, sipped his beer. “Still don’t know them.”
“The ensuing altercation, which involved shouts, hard language, some shoves, alarmed young Charlie enough to have him call the police.”
“That’s where you came in.”
“I was heading home. It’s on the way.” Since Miles was there, Jake started on a second patty. “Both women were—I’m going to reach back for the old-fashioned—het up. I can’t say I feared for my life, but I did fear I’d have to haul a couple of women in.”
“Not to mention the kid and the dog.”
“Not to mention. The one’s claiming Gigi doesn’t leave the yard unleashed since the one time last fall the dog slipped through and dug in the neighbor’s chrysanthemums. And the other’s going off about barking and pooping when out comes Charlie, holding the suspect.
“Grab the buns and that bag of chips.”
He gestured to the sliders and the deck before carrying the plate of patties outside to the already smoking grill.
“Now, while I do consider myself well versed in bullshit—you can’t rise to chief of police otherwise—I don’t claim to be an expert on dog shit. But it only takes one look at the size of that dog and the size of the shit to conclude Gigi’s innocence.”
The patties hit the grill and sizzled.
“Did you point this out?”
“I did, in more civilized and professional language. Further investigation—Charlie assists with some insight—reveals there are several larger dogs in the neighborhood, including, Charlie states, a big golden retriever named Stu just down the way who often escapes his yard and enjoys pooping elsewhere.”
Jake flipped the burgers.
“In conclusion I tell Anne Vincent I’ll remove the poop if she agrees to pay for the cost of having the evidence analyzed to identify the breed of the dog it came from. Which is, of course, bullshit. Otherwise, she’ll remove it and clean the step, and Kate Potter will agree not to press charges. I advise her against taking similar action anytime in the future.
“She squawks—a lot—then says she’s going to shoot the next dog that comes on her property.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah, avoid if possible. I tell her if she does that, she’ll land in one of my cells in a half a quick minute. I put my hard-ass face on for that because I felt like one, and she backed right off.”
He flipped the burgers back on the plate.
Since he knew his friend, Miles had already gotten the condiments and paper plates from the cabinet under the grill.
They sat at the table Jake had built in high school woodshop, doctored their burgers, opened the chips.
“So how was your day?”
“Not as gripping as yours.”
“How’s Morgan doing?”
“Handling it. The day you came in to tell me about Rozwell I walked into Grand’s office, and she’s in there. Crying.”
“Well, it’s a lot.”
“It’s a lot. Then I decide to go into the fitness center for a workout, and I see her on one of the treadmills. Strolling. What’s the point of getting on one if you’re going to stroll?”
He shrugged, ate.
“Then I find out she’s working with Jen—self-defense, personal training.”
“Jen the Destroyer?”
Miles grinned at that, shrugged again. “I stopped into the bar that night. She was feeling it. Anyway, she bought a decent car.”
“Make, model, year, color? We want to keep an eye.”
When Miles told him, Jake filed it away. Watching Miles, he crunched into a chip. “Sounds like you’re keeping an eye.”
“Security’s on it,” Miles began.
“No doubt there. I meant you. Personally.”
“She works for us.”
“So does a good portion of Westridge. I know when you’re getting a thing.”
“I’m not getting a thing. And she’s got enough to deal with.”
“Can’t argue with the last part. Want another beer?”
“No, thanks. I brought home some work, and I’ve got to get there and feed the dog.” But he sat another moment, nursing the rest of his beer. “Things are complicated.”
“Tell me about it.”
The gym didn’t make Morgan happy, but she stuck with it. Maybe, she admitted as she ground her way through triceps kickbacks, because Jen intimidated her. And maybe, a little, because she felt a tiny bit stronger.
And a lot, she knew, because the three hours a week provided something to do, something active and productive.
Plus, sweaty.
Now, the self-defense portion did make her happy. It made her feel stronger and smarter and more self-aware. She had to admit she’d thoroughly enjoyed busting on Richie the bellman in the padded suit.
But she did not enjoy the lifting, the lunging, the mean machines, or any of the tortures Jen outlined for her. Still, knowing Jen’s hawk gaze could zero in on her at any moment, Morgan squatted down into what her formidable instructor called the goddess position—screw that!—and began the biceps-burning series of curls.
“I’ve been texting you.”
Morgan didn’t quite defeat the snarl as she glanced up and saw Nell. Nell with her perfect sweep of glossy hair and makeup. Nell in her non-sweat-stained spring dress and pretty pink slingbacks.
“I’m working out. My hands are busy.”
“So I see. Tracie said she saw you in here.” As smoothly as a catcher behind the plate, Nell squatted down. “I need a favor.”
“You need a favor?” Determined to see it through, Morgan shifted the weight to her other hand and began the second half. “If I say yes, will you do the core work I’ve got coming after this?”
“That wouldn’t do you any good. I had Loren from the Lodge and Tricia from Après working the Janson wedding tonight.”
“I know this. Can thighs split open?” Morgan panted out. “I think mine are going to split open. Why does Jen want to kill me?”
“Loren dislocated his finger.”
“Working out?”
“Playing basketball. Right hand, ring finger. It’s not broken, but it’s in a splint, and will be for a while.”
“I’m sorry. That had to hurt. Maybe as much as thighs splitting open. Maybe even more. Obviously, he can’t tend bar at the Janson wedding tonight. You need another of my team?”
“I need you.”
“I lost count, but I know that had to be fifteen.” Morgan straightened slowly. “I finished the set. I finished, and I’m still alive. Everything burns, everything.”
“It’s supposed to. Listen—”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got arms like Linda Hamilton in Terminator Two.”
“Thanks. Morgan—”
“Yeah, yeah.” She dropped down on a bench. “Even with the wedding—that’s around two hundred—Friday’s one of our busiest nights.”
“It won’t be as busy from seven to midnight, as the Janson wedding is fully thirty-five percent of our occupancy this weekend. Nick agreed to work a double. I couldn’t reach you,” Nell said when Morgan swiped at sweat and stared at her. “I asked if he’d cover if you took the event, and he agreed.”
“He could work the event.”
“He could, but. Tricia’s on weekend days at Après because she’s one of the best. Loren’s the most experienced bartender in the Lodge. Nick’s excellent, but I don’t want him covering this after working a full shift, unless I have to.
“Ariel Jenson,” she went on. “She’s the bride. She’s Mrs. Fisk—remember Mrs. Fisk? She’s Mrs. Fisk on steroids. She puts the ‘zilla’ in ‘bridezilla.’ I need this perfect. My mother’s also asking for this favor.”
“You pay me. You could just tell me to do it.”
“But that’s not what we’re doing. We’re asking.”
Morgan picked up the gym towel on her bench, mopped her face. “Do you know when I’ve sweat this much before?”
“No.”
“Never. Wine and beer or full bar?”
“Full bar. Two full bars, one on the northeast corner of the ballroom, one on the southwest corner. She’s got two signature cocktails. Her colors are lavender and peach, so an It’s Peachy—a Bellini. And a Flying High, an Aviation, because it’s lavender. I’ve got the recipe for the Aviation.”
“I know how to make an Aviation.”
“Really? I’d never even heard of it. Neither had Loren or Tricia—though they made them for the tasting and passed. This is why we need you. You already know.”
“Fine. Sure. What—”
“Great. Many thanks. I’ll text you everything, but you’ll need to be here by six for the final briefing. Ceremony’s at seven, plated dinner at seven-thirty, followed by dancing—live band—eight-thirty to midnight. If they go beyond midnight, it’ll cost them, but Mom thinks they will. Plan on more like one.”
“All right. You really won’t do my core work?”
“I gave you a nice break. Plus, Jen says you’re a machine.”
Morgan nearly perked up. “Really?”
“A machine that needs a little more oiling here and there, but a machine.” Reaching out, Nell pinched Morgan’s biceps. “It’s happening. I’ve got to run. I’ll text you.”
Morgan sat on the bench another moment, flexed, pinched. Maybe a little was happening.
Now she had to face the horror of crunches and bicycles and leg lifts before she checked to make sure Nick was set, then went home to shower and reschedule the rest of her day.
Though she’d worked weddings before, she’d never worked one so elaborate or formal—or so minutely regimented.
They’d transformed the ballroom into a spring garden and one that sparkled with crystals, shimmered with candles. Even her bar held a small arrangement of peach roses in a slim silver vase.
More arrangements, huge ones, flanked the raised platform where the band would perform. Currently a white curtain separated it from the rest of the ballroom.
The bride’s demand.
Still more flowers flanked the ballroom doors where she would enter.
Tables, draped in lavender cloths with peach runners, held arrangements where the flowers sparkled with fairy lights. Chairs, also draped, had nosegays tucked into their back ties.
An arbor smothered in flowers stood at the end of a white runner. To its far left a string quartet would play before the ceremony, and would continue as the bride’s attendants—eight of them, plus flower girl and ring bearer—made their procession.
They’d provide selected—by the bride—music for portions of the ceremony and throughout the dinner service.
Groomsmen would begin to escort guests to their assigned tables, staff would take their drink orders—limited before the ceremony to the champagne at the table, one of the signature cocktails, or nonalcoholic choice. Bartenders would fill the orders until seven—sharp—when the groom and his best man entered by the side ballroom doors.
Any guests arriving after the seven o’clock mark would wait outside the ballroom until the bride and her father reached the arbor.
No exceptions, by order of the bride.
“The ceremony runs fifteen minutes,” Drea continued. “When the bride and groom are played out, guests are free to order drinks from the table, go to the bars while staff removes the arbor, the runner. The bulk of the photos are done, and the photographer and videographer will work the ceremony, but there will be another fifteen to thirty minutes of post-ceremony photos. The bride wants dinner service to begin at seven-thirty with the salad course. Then they’ll announce the wedding party, the parents of the groom, of the bride, then the happy couple. Once they’re seated, dinner service continues, and the bars are again open.
“At eight-thirty, the curtain comes down, and the band begins.”
She ran through the rituals and their timing—first dance, mother-son, father-daughter, cake cutting, bouquet tossing.
At six-thirty, Morgan took her station and guests began to come in.
They suited the room in their black tie and sleek gowns. She thought the oohs and aahs as they took in the ballroom well deserved.
Then she got busy mixing peach and lavender drinks and pouring sparkling water.
She didn’t know whether to credit the demanding bride or Drea, but it all ran smooth when at the dot of seven the music changed. The attendants, in their lavender gowns with crowns of peach rosebuds on their heads, proceeded down the runner.
The ring bearer and flower girl earned every smile—he in his tiny tux and lavender waistcoat, she in her frothy peach dress.
Then the dramatic pause before the bride, on the arm of her father, stepped into the doorway.
Morgan barely smothered an ooh of her own.
She wore a fairy princess gown, snow-white, miles of skirt, and a snug, strapless bodice that sparkled as it caught the light. Her hair, raven black, swept up and back with a few artistically, perfectly loosened strands to curl around her face.
She, too, wore a crown of flowers, more elaborate than her attendants’ and with a veil trailing like a gossamer cloud down her back.
She may have been hell to work with, Morgan thought, but the way she looked at the man waiting under the arbor, the way he looked at her, said “love.”
Drea slipped in, sidled over to Morgan. She said quietly, “Whew.”
“It’s stunning, everything is just stunning.”
“That’s what she wanted. And this?” She nodded toward where the bride and groom exchanged vows. “It’s the first time I’ve seen her relaxed and happy in weeks.”
She slipped out again.
Morgan watched the kiss, watched how the groom lifted his bride’s hand to his lips when they turned to face their guests.
She wondered how it felt to look like a princess.
But more, she wondered how it felt to have someone look at you the way the groom looked at the bride. As if everything he’d ever wanted, ever would want, lived right there in her eyes.
Then they swept down the runner and 1out, and she got busy fast.
The band knocked it out. Playing to an audience of three generations, they wove in some old standards, pushed covers of current hits, sprinkled in plenty of classic rock. The dance floor stayed packed, clearing only for the rituals like the cutting of the massive four-tiered wedding cake.
By midnight, Morgan estimated about half the guests had said their goodbyes. But the other half kept right on partying.
It didn’t surprise Morgan when she got word the father of the bride agreed to an hour’s extension.
She poured, stirred, shook, and enjoyed the music and the show.
It did surprise her when Miles walked in—and didn’t look out of place among the tuxes and gowns in his casual shirt and jeans.
She credited the invisible suit.
“I’m sorry, sir, this is a private event.”
He glanced behind her at the few remaining bottles of champagne on ice in silver tubs.
“How many of those did you go through?”
“Including the table bottles, you could round it up to a hundred. The signature Bellini and straight champagne were popular. The Aviations came in a distant third, by my estimates, behind the champagne and beer.”
“Sunglasses or pilots?”
“It’s a drink, Miles.”
On cue, the best man—sans jacket, tie, and waistcoat—came up to the bar.
“How’s it going, Morgan?”
“It’s going great, Trevor. Another round for you and Darcie?”
“You got it. Best party ever. I’ll be back for the drinks. Gotta dance!”
“You know that guy?” Miles asked.
“I do now. He and the groom—that’s Hank, the one out there with the crown of flowers on his head—have been friends since grade school.”
She dumped ice into a flute and a martini glass to chill them, then got out a shaker. “Trevor and Darcie have been an item for about ten months. It’s serious,” she said as she added ice to the shaker.
“An Aviation,” she continued, “or, as one of the two signature cocktails, a Flying High. Gin, lemon juice, maraschino liqueur, and crème de violette.”
As she shook the ingredients, she grabbed a bottle of champagne out of the ice tub. She lifted off the silver stopper, dumped the ice out of the flute.
As Miles watched, she managed to pour the champagne, strain the first drink into the martini glass. She added peach nectar to the champagne and had the drinks on cocktail napkins when Trevor danced back.
“All right!” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a money clip. “Only got twenties left.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Morgan began.
“Nah, you’re worth it.” He stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. “Hey, this your girl?” he asked Miles.
“No.”
“Making a mistake. Best bartender in the universe of bartenders. Plus, hot. Ah, don’t tell Darcie I said that last bit.”
“Lips are sealed,” Morgan assured him. “Fly high, Trevor.”
“Bet your ass!” He took a slug of the Aviation, then carried the drinks off to the dance floor.
“It’s purple. Why is it purple?”
“Violet,” Morgan corrected. “And because of the crème de violette.”
“I get that part, but not why. They’ve got, what, about another fifteen?”
“About.”
“I’ll be back.”
At quarter after one, only staff worked the ballroom while the band finished breaking down. She helped catering secure the alcohol, started to tie up her last bag of empties.
“Catering will haul that out to the bin,” Miles told her, and glanced around. “You’re clear.”
“It’s my first event at the resort, but I can say you guys know how to run one.”
“We’ve got another one in here tomorrow, so we’ll undress the tables and chairs, but leave some.”
“With Loren out, do you need coverage?”
“No. Smaller, less elaborate, second-time-around event. You’re clear,” he said again, then took her arm. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Actually, I’m going to just swing by Après first.”
“It’s closed.”
“I know that, and Nick’s great. He’s thorough and he’s responsible, but he’s also not used to closing, especially on a weekend night. Après is my responsibility, so I’m just going to check.”
With a shrug, he led her through the hallways, around to the lobby, and the archway. When he flicked on the lights, she scanned the room.
Tables, booths, chairs looked clean. Housekeeping hit the floors every morning, the windows every week.
“Satisfied?”
Ignoring him, she walked in, circled the bar.
Clean, backbar tidy, tubs and trays clean and draining, sinks wiped down.
“Why don’t you look tired?” he wondered as she did her check.
“I’m a creature of the night,” she said absently.
“Owl or vampire?”
“Depends on the night, and despite the event, it looks like Après had a good night.”
“I can see the stock.”
He came around the bar himself, got a bottle of Cabernet off the rack. “I’m having a drink.” He glanced at her while he drew the cork. “Are you having a drink? You’re off duty.”
“I … Sure.” She set two red wineglasses on the bar, then fixed a wine keeper on the bottle after he’d poured.
“Booth.” He gestured, walked over, and sat.
When she went over to join him, sat, she let out a sigh. “I do remember how to sit. It’s been awhile.”
“You’re entitled to breaks during an event.”
“Yeah, Tricia and I worked them out.” But it felt damn good to just sit. She sipped the wine, sighed again. “Do you do this a lot? Sit in an empty bar?”
“No. You?”
“Actually, yeah. Not drinking Cab, especially this label, but an empty bar has its own personality. This one’s quiet comfort with a touch of subtle elegance. It’s nice.”
He shouldn’t ask; he didn’t like small talk. But he asked anyway because he wanted to know.
“Why bartending?”
“Well, I get to hang out in bars—and stay sober. I like bars. I like people. You have to when you’re in hospitality.”
“I’m in hospitality. I don’t especially like people.”
She studied him as she drank. Those eyes, she thought, sure knew how to focus in when he wanted to. “That’s crazy. You have to work with people every day.”
“Point made.”
“Well, I like people. Working behind a bar’s a busy place, but it’s usually a cheerful one. People come in because they’re ready to unwind or celebrate. You’ve got your lonelies who just want someone to talk to. That’s what you’re there for. Why do you come in on Friday nights, especially Friday nights when the bar’s going to be crowded, if you don’t like people?”
“Come into a crowded bar for a drink and it’s not likely anyone’s going to try to talk to you. I can get some work done, unwind, and have a glass of wine. Come in when it’s not crowded? Somebody’s going to try to start a conversation. ‘Some weather we’re having,’ ‘How about those Cubs,’ something.”
Aha, she thought. Now she got it.
“You use your phone as a force field.”
He smiled a little. “I use it for work, and yeah, it doubles as a force field. What I wonder is how you got into tending bar, and, according to—was it Trevor?—have risen to the best bartender in the universe of bartenders.”
“Trevor was flying high,” she reminded him.
“I’ve seen you work, and I know why my mother and sister wanted you on that very demanding event tonight.”
“I waited tables in college. Jesus, that’s hard work.”
Whether it was the empty bar, the Cab, or the company, she felt absolutely relaxed.
“It can be rewarding, but the fact is there are types—and a lot of them for various and situational reasons—who’ll take out anything that doesn’t work for them with the meal on the server. I decided I didn’t want to waitress for a living or run a restaurant.”
She settled back, sipped again. “Profit margins in restaurants are wafer thin. You make the money at the bar. For strictly cynical reasons, I took a bartending class and I liked it. I liked it a lot. So when I hit twenty-one, I quit waitressing and started bartending, and I liked it even more.”
Feeling easy, she closed her eyes a moment. “The idea was to save up enough, get enough experience and save enough to open my own place. Nice little neighborhood bar. I had about three years to go, by my careful calculations. And then…”
She shrugged, sipped a little more.
“Yours is easy to figure,” she continued. “Third-generation hotelier, oldest male sibling in gen three. Ever think about doing something else?”
“Sure.”
“Like what?”
“Indiana Jones. My version of Indiana Jones, the lone adventurer/anthropologist.”
“Every kid who’s watched those movies wanted to be Indy.”
“This was last year.”
She laughed, shook her head. “You’d need the hat. Nobody could pull it off without the hat. But did you want this”—she gestured to encompass the resort—“and all the work that goes with it? Because your family puts in a lot of work.”
“Nothing else I thought about wanting stuck. Yeah, I wanted this. We put in a lot of work because we all want this.”
“It comes across. People who work here like the work and the conditions, so they’re good at it. That comes down from the top. My day job before was a family business. Smaller scale, sure, but it comes to the same. And the bar where I worked last, good management. The one where I worked my last year of college, I can’t say the same. But I learned, and that’s what counts.”
She set down her empty glass. “I’ll pour you another if you want, but I have to get home.”
“No, one does it.”
She took the glasses into the kitchen. In the bar, she took a last look around before she shut off the lights.
“Nick’s a serious asset.”
“We know it.”
“His sister’s also a serious asset. She’s the she-devil from hell, but an asset.”
“They don’t call her the Destroyer for nothing. No jacket?”
“I’ve got one in the car if I need it.” She stepped outside into the cool and fragrant. “Don’t need it. Speaking of assets, your grounds crew.”
They crossed to the lot, circling the island where flowers bloomed in winding rivers of reds and whites and delicate pinks.
At the car, she checked the back seat before she unlocked it.
“Thanks for the drink and the escort.”
“No problem.”
She got in, checked the gauges. Of course he stood and watched her drive away.
And as she drove away she thought, in a weird way, they’d just had sort of a kind of date.
She didn’t know what to think about that, and decided he probably didn’t think of it that way at all. But if he did consider it a weird sort of date, she found she didn’t mind.