“It’s good that we did this. You can’t be too careful.”
“Yeah.” He paused, shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lydia. I should have thought, I just got—”
“It’s okay. We’re both adults, Vaughan. We were both there.”
He opened his mouth like he was going to say something. But he didn’t.
With a turn of the key the Mustang’s engine roared to life, same as always. Such an ostentatious hunk of metal. Much too loud for the middle of the night.
I thought again about how muscle cars, tattooed men, and other wild cool things weren’t my thing. I craved stability. A sensible, settled life. The whole Chris thing had been a mistake, yes. Obviously. Next time I’d take things slower. Not get so carried away. Whatever the future brought, this temporary time of insanity was at an end. Dirty and crazy were not for me.
“I think I might test-drive a Prius tomorrow,” I said, decision made. “One of the used car dealerships has a four-year-old model for sale.”
Another nod.
We didn’t talk again until we were back at his place. Even then, it was just a quiet good night as he disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door.
Me and my annoying ovaries were shut out.
Nausea and cramping made it difficult to sleep. So I sat up and read through the settlement offer from the Delaneys’ lawyers. In fact, I read through it twice. Then, just for kicks, I read through it a third time. It took that long for the shock to die down.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Do I look like someone who wants to spend the rest of tonight crapping myself?” The cranky man shoved the antipasto platter into my hands. “I told the waiter I needed gluten free. I was very clear about it.”
“I apologize for the mistake, sir,” I said. “Let me get that fixed right away for you.”
“Thank you,” he ground out, his expression far from appreciative.
Whatever.
I hauled ass to the kitchen, where Boyd raised an eyebrow at me. “I need a new antipasto gluten free, please.”
He nodded and got busy. Or rather, as the only chef in the kitchen tonight, stayed busy. Nell had called in sick after vomiting all day, the poor thing. Luckily the Dive Bar was only half full tonight.
God, I hoped I didn’t come down with her virus. The morning-after pill had messed with me enough.
An almighty clatter came from the front counter. I spun around to find Masa standing there, a tray full of glasses shattered at his feet. Ice cubes, lemon slices, and straws, all spread out across the floor.
“Crap,” I muttered.
Masa just made a small sound of despair and dropped to his knees, to clean up.
I grabbed the dustpan and brush, then joined him down there.
“I’m sorry,” he said, hands moving frantically. “This won’t take a minute.”
“Slow down. You cutting yourself on broken glass won’t help anyone.”
He didn’t say anything, but he did calm down. A start.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked, carefully scooping up the remains of a beer bottle.
“What? Nothing,” said the young man.
“Try again.”
He just sniffed.
“Masa, you served mint to the woman with mint allergies, got the gluten-intolerant guy’s order wrong, and told Boyd that the vegetarians at table eight wanted the chicken satay pizza instead of the margherita. And the list goes on.”
He looked at me, dark eyes swollen and red.
“You’re clearly upset and distracted,” I said. “Talk to me.”
He hung his head. “My girlfriend dumped me.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”
“She’s been fucking her tutor for months behind my back.” Masa’s chin wrinkled, his jaw rigid. “They’re in love, apparently. She texted me just before work, told me all about it.”
“What a bitch.”
From over behind the bar, Eric watched us as he poured another beer. He made no move to come over, and communicated nothing with his gaze. So be it. Broken hearts were serious shit. Someone had to act before Masa accidentally set the place on fire while serving Baked Alaska, or something.
“Clean this up, then head home,” I said, handing Masa the dustpan and brush. “I’ll make sure Eric’s okay with it.”
“Are you sure?” He looked worried. As he probably should be.
“Yeah. The dinner rush is almost over. I can finish up here.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” I smiled and got back to work.
Gluten-intolerant dude didn’t leave a tip and cleanup took a little longer than normal, but there were no more complaints or catastrophes. I’m pretty sure I spotted the reporter who’d wanted the scoop on my botched wedding lurking out on the sidewalk at one stage during the night. So long as he didn’t actively get in my face, however, I was willing to ignore him. For now.