Page 13 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

SURELY NOTHING WILL GO WRONG IF WE ADD BUBBLY TO THE MIX

Simon

I say goodnight to Daphne, and Bea and I step into the apartment hallway.

It smells of curry and ginger, and for a moment, I feel as though I’m back in London despite having spent as little time as possible there since my early twenties, before the boys were born.

Bea drops my hand and leads me to the lift.

When she presses the button, the doors open nearly immediately.

And then we’re inside.

Just the two of us.

In a very small space with ivory walls and the curry and ginger scents from the hallway lingering with a hint of cigar smoke.

Bea presses 1 on the button panel beside the silver doors as they slide shut.

I stand in the middle of the car, unsure of how much space I should give her now that it’s just the two of us and the elephants that she doesn’t seem to realize have also boarded the lift with us.

“Have you lived here long?” I inquire as we begin our descent.

“I moved in with Daph when—when I broke up with someone a few months ago.”

“Ah.”

“How long are you in Athena’s Rest?”

“Through the summer, likely. I’m due in Los Angeles in September.”

“Filming your next show?”

“A movie. They’ve delayed production to accommodate my schedule with the boys this summer, in fact, which still feels rather odd.”

She makes a soft hum of acknowledgment while I tell myself to stop talking.

The lift shudders to a stop, the doors open, and Tank greets us to accompany us out to the waiting SUV limousine.

This is quite a different experience from the last time I dated anyone.

Not that this is a date date. The real kind.

Even if a very small, inconsequential part of me wishes that Bea’s intentions were merely interest in me as a person.

Possibly more than a small, inconsequential part of me.

Definitely a part that needs to shut up.

One can hardly be inspiration for a script without also being fascinating. Were I not in need of a script, I daresay I’d still be interested in learning more about this woman who raised her brothers and serves burgers and fish out of a converted school bus.

Her brow wrinkles as Tank opens the rear limousine door for her, but she also smiles and thanks him before stepping inside.

I follow.

Tank closes us in.

The divider is up between us and the driver’s seat, so it’s just the two of us back here.

And my hands are suddenly sweating.

Because I’m being an utter bastard in using her back?

Or because I suddenly don’t know what to do with an attractive woman sitting so close that our knees are touching?

Am I back in primary school?

I don’t get nervous around women.

“Was the limo too much?” I ask Bea. “I didn’t consider that what would do in a city might not work in a smaller town.”

She’s in the side seat, her red dress riding up her bare thighs as she inspects the buttons and levers that control the seats and open the cupboards hiding snacks and beverages.

“Maybe. Do you always pick up your dates in limos?”

“I don’t know.”

She studies me with those bright green eyes. “You don’t know how you pick up your dates?”

“I haven’t dated since I could afford to pick up dates in style.”

Is my tie getting tighter?

She studies me closer and crosses her legs, which I actively try to ignore.

Her legs, that is.

Though the scrutiny is also rather uncomfortable.

The car pulls away from the curb, and I lunge for the cupboard to my right. “Champagne? To celebrate the pending success of your burger bus?”

I slide out the tray holding two flutes and an already opened and chilled bottle of bubbly.

“Is that Dom Pérignon?” she asks.

“It is . I’ve never had it before. Seemed a marvelous time to try it, while taking you out for a publicity date. Do you think they’d let us sneak it into the restaurant?”

She blinks slowly at me, making me wonder if she’s aware that I’m aware of her other intentions. “I think we’ll have to find out.”

“Brilliant.”

“You really don’t care that I asked you to take me out for my own benefit?”

“I’m hardly getting nothing out of this evening. I do believe I’ll be receiving a fair amount of attention myself, and you know how the celebrity world is. Always best to be at the forefront of your audience’s minds.”

She visibly swallows. “You really haven’t dated at all since In the Weeds got popular?”

“No.”

“Because it bothers you to not know who would’ve liked you before your success and who only likes you now because you played a popular character on TV?”

“Oh, I don’t mind if the women I date like me or not. But I do mind if they intend to sell photos of me in positions I’d rather my boys not see me in. That’s been the biggest deterrent.”

“You don’t care if they like you or not ?”

I pass her a champagne flute. “Not at all. That would only matter if I intended for anything to become a permanent situation. I find I’m physically attracted to people whose personalities I don’t like. They’re good in the sack, and I never have to see them again if I don’t want to.”

Hence my current situation.

I am attracted to Beatrice Best, and I dislike her personality immensely.

At least, the part of her personality that thought this evening would be a good idea.

The part of her that understands teenage boys and shares smiles with her best friend, who gave up her own educational ambitions for the good of her brothers, who provided my boys with extra fries and burgers at no additional charge the other day—and yes, I noticed that—those parts of her personality fascinate me.

It’s good that she wishes to use me.

Otherwise, I would be in over my head with this woman.

She goggles at me once more, then tips her head back and laughs. “Wow. That’s a philosophy I never would’ve considered.”

“Lana regularly tells me I should speak with a therapist, but until I’m unhappy with my life overall, I fail to see how discussing my unique philosophies with a professional would improve anything.”

“Um, maybe for the example you’re setting for your children?”

“They don’t meet the women I merely tolerate for their personalities but enjoy in the bedroom. Certainly not in the capacity as their father’s companion, at any rate.”

She’s still shaking her head, lips still tilted up. “So this is what Daph meant.”

“About what?”

“About British people being far more forward about sex than we Americans are.”

“Yes, and we’re rather comfortable with the word cunt as well.”

She cringes, then laughs at herself. “Just a word…”

Americans. Truly.

I shift in my seat and change the subject. “Do you wish to get married someday?”

“ No .” She laughs lightly. “Maybe. Probably not. But maybe—no. No, probably not.”

“Your certainty is refreshing.”

She hits me with a smile that makes her eyes sparkle and her dimples pop out on both cheeks.

My cock goes lightheaded.

Is that even possible?

I shift in the seat again, and yes, yes, my cock is most definitely lightheaded.

My hand is also shaky as I pour myself a flute of champagne.

“I wouldn’t be an easy person to marry,” she tells me.

“Whyever not?”

“Because I’m a sixty-year-old empty-nester in a twenty-nine-year-old’s body.

I love my brothers, but finishing the job our parents started wasn’t easy, and I don’t want to do it again.

Ah-ah-ah. Don’t say maybe you’ll feel differently once time has passed and you meet the right man .

The only right answer is you did a great job with your brothers, Bea, and you’ve earned time to focus on enjoying your life for yourself now . ”

I smile broadly at her terrible English accent, tipping my flute to hers in a silent toast. “You raised at least two men who clearly adore you with all of their hearts and souls, and you deserve every happiness you gift to yourself. Is your other brother as kind and charming and brilliant as those two?”

“No. And he has even worse taste in television shows than Daphne does.”

“So he’s an In the Weeds fan?”

“You said it. I didn’t.” She shifts her gaze away as she takes a sip.

I sip my bubbly as well, amused at her reaction to the show. “You’re not a fan?”

“Of a show about middle-aged men trying to kill each other over marijuana and money with the blessing of their shithead of a father? I realize I’m in the minority, but it’s not my personal cup of tea, and let’s be real.

It’s been done over and over and over again.

Where are the shows about women murdering their cheating spouses and abusers and getting away with it?

What about the shows where women are the mobsters and the mafia bosses?

Oh my god . Why are you smiling like that?

I’m basically insulting you, and you keep smiling bigger and bigger. Who does that ?”

Someone who’s rapidly realizing how to write the next cult hit. “No, you’re right, the show was dreadful. I wrote it as a comedy and it was directed as a drama and it’s a hot mess.”

“ You wrote it as a comedy ?”

“That was my intention. If not straight-up comedy, satire at the very least.”

She stares at me as though I’m a man who’s lost his puppy and needs reassurance that it will be found one day even though she knows it’s actually dead in the street.

As if I’m deserving of all of the world’s pity for my situation.

Rather than offering comfort at my clear lack of worthwhile talent though, she purses those plump red lips together and looks away as though she’s embarrassed for me.

It’s a refreshing reaction, honestly.

The show was complete rubbish. Bungled all to hell by trying to make it into a true drama. And successful despite its best efforts to not be. Both seasons now. “Is that why you were immune to my charm last Saturday?” I ask.

“No, I was immune to your charm because you had me sent to jail and I almost had a panic attack because I hate enclosed spaces and my stupid ex’s brother was the cop and he wouldn’t let me pee and you had the nerve to be smiley-smiley-happy-happy like an I’m sorry was supposed to brush it all away when—sorry, this is rude—I was very, very tired of seeing your face to begin with. ”

I shift in my seat again because, while I’m comfortable talking about sex and inviting women to have sex with me, I’m also well-trained on not walking around with my flagpole up—there are lines—and I find it highly attractive in a woman when she insults me and holds me to a high standard.

Clearly, my body recognizes Bea as someone I could fuck and leave.

Also, perhaps Lana’s right about seeing that therapist.

“And also because it’s easy to confuse you with the character,” she adds on a sigh. “I know I shouldn’t, I just—you see Peter Jones smiling, and you wonder what he’s planning next.”

“A man intent on proving to the mother of his children that he can, in fact, afford to help pay for their school supplies will do anything for a meager salary,” I tell Bea.

“Including participating in the butchering of a show he wrote and loved, requiring him to play a man who’s far worse than he was written to be. ”

“Are you just telling me this because you think it’s what I want to hear?”

“Heavens, no. I don’t tend to have that affliction. Though the studio does prefer that I not state my real feelings on the production while on press tours and late-night talk shows.”

She’s smiling as she sips her champagne. “I honestly can’t make you out at all. Is this real?”

“As real as I get.”

“So not all real. Just as real as you’re willing to show people.”

The lady is correct, and I should be as on guard as she appears to be.

“Ah, we’re almost here. Would you like a top up?

I’m sure it’s against proper etiquette to arrive at a grand opening with our own beverages, but I’ve discovered people let me get away with terrible behavior since they expect far worse from me, and it would draw extra attention to both of us. ”

She’s quite pretty when she’s smiling that you are entirely too much smile, and I do love the way her dimples deepen as her smile broadens.

Though her brother was right.

She’s also quite pretty when she’s working in her burger bus.

There’s something undeniably attractive about a woman in her element, and Bea clearly enjoys interacting with the public and takes a great deal of pride in her mobile business.

She holds out her glass. “I would love a refill. Thank you.”

The limousine glides to a halt, and I pour bubbly into her glass until the bubbles pour over the edge.

“A thousand apologies. Let me get you a serviette.”

“I’ve got this.” She switches hands and licks the champagne off her fingers before I can reach for a cloth, and my cock once again goes lightheaded.

So this is to be my punishment for the evening.

Watching an attractive woman lick her fingers and knowing there’s only the slimmest of chances that she’d be up for a roll in the hay afterward.

Though the night is young.

And I still have many, many opportunities to be the world’s most perfect publicity date.

Especially since I know more secrets than she thinks I do.

I pass her a serviette anyway, and she uses it to dry her licked fingers and swipe around the glass.

She’s just finished when Tank opens the door for us.

I look at Bea. “Are you ready to make your public debut?”

She tugs the hem of her dress and smiles a smile that doesn’t dimple or shine as brightly as usual. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then let us go make an entrance.”