Page 17 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

THERE’S AN ISSUE IN THE LOO

Simon

Bea Best is a remarkably charming companion, made more remarkable as she flashes those dimples at me before she turns and strides out of the room and toward the hallway.

I quickly retake my seat so as to hide my once again overactive, backstabbing cock from view.

Watching her hips swing in that dress as she leaves the room does things to my body.

She has a lovely arse.

Round and grabbable.

Perfectly sized for my hands.

Why do the worst of them always have the best bodies?

And why do I always have to notice?

Especially when I have an audience and cannot scowl about it without being noticed?

Top on my list of things to scowl about—I am, unfortunately, stupidly happy to be here.

I still have questions for Bea—research questions that I have no qualms about asking without telling her why—but until Jake appeared at our tableside, I’d almost forgotten that I was ever irritated with her.

Aileen strides into the room with a silver pitcher and starts refilling water glasses at the other table.

The two gentlemen who took an interest in Bea’s intentions are first.

“Not to be that person,” the taller of the two says to Aileen, “but service seems…slow. We finished our fondue twenty minutes ago.”

“First night kinks.” She casts a glance at me, catches me watching her, and turns back to them, lowering her voice. Lucky for me, I have excellent hearing. “And you didn’t hear this from me, but Jake and Chef are fighting about menu modifications.”

Both men peer at me.

I pretend to not notice as I drain the last of the champagne.

Such a pity.

The bottle’s run out.

It was quite delicious. I can see why it’s popular.

And I gave half of it to Beatrice Best.

The trickster.

I wonder if she’s ever been called Trixie as a nickname. I shall have to try it.

It fits her devious little mind.

All the better if she doesn’t like it.

“An all-cheese menu was never a good idea anyway,” the shorter of the two men whispers. “Do they not know what that does to a normal person’s digestive system?”

“That’s what Chef said too. And you didn’t hear that from me either. I’m like, the only person on staff who seems to think so.”

I stifle a smile that pops out automatically.

And then a hiccup.

Possibly I shouldn’t have drunk a half bottle of champagne on an empty stomach.

The Asiago bread is likely worth the risk of later discomfort.

Goodness only knows I say things I shouldn’t when I’m tipsy. Wrong crowd for that tonight.

“How bad is the fighting?” the shorter man asks.

“I really shouldn’t say if I want to keep my job,” Aileen whispers back.

“They should sell tickets to a table in the kitchen. I’d pay a mint to see Jake Camille actually losing his shit in public.”

“You’re such a weirdo, Quincy,” the taller man says.

The shorter man—Quincy, it would seem—winks at him. “Love you too, babe.” Then he looks at me. “Excuse me, can I ask you a question?”

“No,” Tank says.

“By all means, ask away,” I reply.

Tank growls.

I ignore him.

“Are you here just for Bea to embarrass Jake, or are you here because of what Jake was rumored to have done to Lana in high school?”

I sit straighter. Not because I’m unaware of either woman’s issue with the owner of this establishment, but because I’m curious what the town says about them. I discreetly burp, remind myself I’m tipsy and need to tread lightly, and smile as though I’m confused.

At least, I hope that’s what I’m doing. “Excuse me?”

“Shut up, Quincy,” his partner says to him.

Quincy waves a shush hand at him. “You know. Because of that time that Jake put live goldfish into Lana’s locker in high school?

But no one ever called him on it because they couldn’t completely prove it was him, and his dad’s sued like, everyone in town, and his mother runs the fourth grade like a dictator, but also the whole school secretly since every principal at the grade school has always been afraid of her too. They’re the terror couple.”

One of the women at a different table makes a noise of protest.

“Shush, Gertie,” Quincy says. “Just because he’s always charming to you doesn’t mean he’s charming to everyone.

Honestly, I thought Bea could do better when I heard she hooked up with Jake, but I imagine when you’re used to taking care of everyone around you, even breadcrumbs of affection feel like riches. ”

Aileen is refilling water glasses at the next table.

Tank is glowering at me.

And I’m uncertain what to say in response.

Lana didn’t mention goldfish.

Which I most definitely need to not say out loud.

“Oh, you didn’t know,” Quincy whispers to me.

“Didn’t I? Or am I merely curious if you’re getting the story right?” I smile, quite proud of myself for making sense.

Bubbly.

Bubbly makes me tipsy faster.

His mouth forms an O. “Oh my god, is there more to the story? Tell me. Tell me now .”

I attempt to lift my brows in a sorry, mate, not for me to share look that I’ve found most gossips understand.

It’s apparently a universal enough expression that Quincy gets it too.

He softly slaps a hand on the table. “What if I told you everything I know about the house you’re living in? It’s a good story. And you should know to watch out for what happens in the shed during a full moon.”

“Nothing happens in the shed during a full moon,” his partner says.

“That ghost was real, Wendell. I saw it myself.”

“That ghost was Logan Camille taking advantage of you being drunk because he liked picking on people who were smaller than he was.”

“That, I absolutely believe,” a woman at the next table murmurs over her wine. “He’s not the same kind of sophisticated that Jake is.”

“Still can’t believe they let him become a cop,” the woman’s companion says.

“ I know , right?” Quincy says. “And of all the bad luck, for him to be the one to answer the call when Simon thought Bea was breaking into his house. You know he loved cuffing her, and I mean that in all the bad ways that it can be taken.”

Another night, another situation, I’d be enjoying this more.

Except I’m now wondering if this is a setup.

I’ll go to the bathroom so the local gossips can sing my praises and tell you how awful my ex and his brother are so that if you’re mad that I didn’t tell you, you’ll feel sorry for me instead.

And it’s fucking inspiring.

Who doesn’t love a town of people who stand up for the lowly against the corrupt power family? This will be an excellent addition to my script.

Bloody hell.

I’ve bent my spoon, and I didn’t even realize I’d picked it up.

At the same time, I’m smiling so hard that my cheeks hurt, because this town is charming and hilarious and very nearly perfect.

Why must I be both drunk and angry and happy?

Not both when there are three things , my inner editor says.

So I haven’t drunk enough to turn that off yet.

Rather unfortunate.

“Are you going to file a complaint against Logan on Bea’s behalf?” the first woman asks me.

Be charming, Luckwood. Be fucking charming . “Oh, I’m sure Bea can handle any complaints herself. She’s quite adept at anything she sets her mind to, is she not?”

“ Swoon ,” Quincy whispers.

“Swoon again ?” Wendell replies. “My god, you’re a pushover.”

“And aren’t you lucky for that?”

“How long have you two been together?” I inquire.

“Twelve years this Thanksgiving,” Quincy says.

And even grumpy Wendell smiles. “It was hate at first sight.”

“Who’s the overdramatic one now?”

“It was. You hated me because I was a stuck-up asshole.”

“And now you’re my asshole.”

They share a look, then they both giggle.

“More water, sir?” Aileen says to me. “Or I can get you a new bottle of champagne. Or wine. Or tea. Anything you’d like. Except bread quickly. Sorry about that.”

“Your best wine, please. Red.”

Am I tipsy, or is she wincing? “We’re a little low on reds tonight.”

“Whites go with cheese,” Quincy says.

“Ah. Then your best bubbly.”

Tank makes a noise again.

I ignore him again.

A server rushes into the room with a tray of salads—dear god, even the salads are swimming in shredded cheese—and as each table is served, their attention drifts from me.

I tap my fingers and look out the window at the lake, where a few paddleboarders are still enjoying the last of the summer evening.

Has Bea been gone a long time?

Has she run out on me?

No, that would make little sense. Not that I’m currently capable of making sense, but there’s no sense in giving me the opportunity to commiserate with her ex-boyfriend about how terrible she is.

That would make him look good.

I peer across the table.

Her handbag is on her chair, and I can see her phone sticking out of it, so she’s not texting someone more diabolical plans from the loo.

Unless, of course, she has a secret second phone.

I look across the room at the two men again. “Excuse me, but could you tell me why you’re here supporting a man whom you claim is awful?”

Quincy smiles broadly. “For the gossip.”

“And to enjoy the food before the place folds,” his partner adds. “Chef’s good. I’ve had his food in Rochester before.”

“Wendell doesn’t think he’ll last two weeks,” Quincy whispers.

“I always wanted to see the inside of this house myself,” the woman at the table beside them says. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Jake’s a good guy,” the man at the last table says. “All of that stuff is just rumors. No substance to it.”

Jake rushes into the room again with a bottle of bubbly in hand.

“Apologies for the delay.” He takes on a slight accent himself that wasn’t here his first go-round, much like his mother did when she cornered me at the chef’s table in Bea’s bus last weekend.

“Chef had insisted no substitutions, so we weren’t prepared, but we’re getting cheese-less bread post-haste.

It’s coming right up. The best hamburger you’ve ever had in your life too. Cheerio!”

He blinks at me.

I blink back.

“Where’s Bea?” he asks.

“Using the ladies’ room.”

His eye twitches. “If she vandalizes it?—”