Page 19 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

I WOULD LIKE OFF OF THIS RIDE, PLEASE

Bea

I hate small spaces.

Hate them.

Like the way Ryker hates flame. That’s how much I hate them. And Ryker haaates flame.

This bathroom is a fraction of the size of the jail cell that had me almost in a panic attack a week ago.

And it’s a full story and a half above the ground, and the window is too high and too small to climb out of, and I’m going to die.

So I’m not thinking clearly enough as I huddle against the door, rattling the knob and trying to make it let me out, to actually process that Simon’s serious about being my hero.

The massive thump that rattles the door has me scrambling back though.

As far back as I can go in this little room with the tile floor and lone high window that’s barely big enough for the pedestal sink and ancient toilet when my knees are shaking and my breath is coming in short bursts, anyway.

“Bloody hell,” he says, his voice muffled by the thick wood. “That wasn’t aimed right, was it?”

My legs bump into the toilet, and I quickly shut the old wood lid and climb onto it.

My heart is racing. I’m sweating like I’ve been in a sauna for an hour instead of trapped in a bathroom for ten minutes.

This adventure will pass the rocking chair test tomorrow.

Right now, I need to get the hell out of here.

I didn’t break the doorknob on purpose.

I really, really didn’t.

I just wanted to stare at myself in the mirror and give myself a little pep talk about how I can do this , and instead—well, instead, karma decided to remind me that I shouldn’t use people.

There’s another thud, but this one is accompanied by the crack of splintering wood. The door flies inward, making a breeze hard enough to lift the wispy flyaways of my hair that have escaped the fancy ’do Daphne put it in.

And then Simon steps into the open doorway, his sleeves rolled up his forearms, his hair slightly disheveled, tie loose, with a bottle of champagne in one hand while his other hand hangs casually at his side.

Like no big deal .

Like just busted a door down to save my date.

While holding a bottle of champagne.

He eyes me, takes a swig off the bottle, and then pulls a face like he got bubbles up his nose.

My heart hiccups.

He’s handsome and funny and innately charming, and just looking at him is calming my racing pulse.

He shifts his gaze to the broken door, splintered where the knob was, slightly crooked on its hinges now, and he nods as if he’s pleased with the work he’s done.

“There now. That does it. Come along, Bea.”

Tank is deeper in the hallway, holding Jake in some kind of twisted-up position.

More people are beyond, staring at us.

At least two are holding phones aimed directly at me.

My heart thuds.

My eyes sting.

My knees wobble, which is extra bad because I’m still squatting on top of the toilet.

In a dress.

I think I have a crush on Simon Luckwood.

And I don’t think it’s because he’s saved me after going on this awful date with me. I don’t think it’s an adrenaline crash, and it’s definitely not that he’s ever been my favorite actor.

It’s—well, it’s him .

He shoulders into the bathroom. “Hold this,” he orders.

I take the bottle without thinking, and then he’s lifting me off the toilet, cradling me in his arms like I’m a precious treasure in need of protecting.

My eyes burn hotter.

“I’m such an asshole,” I whisper.

“Indeed,” he agrees.

It shouldn’t be funny.

It really shouldn’t.

But a snort of laughter escapes me anyway, and just like that—I can breathe again.

My heart can’t quite join my lungs in working right, but I can breathe.

And that, too, makes him heroic in my eyes.

He helped me breathe.

He carries me out of the bathroom, and I wrap my free arm around him and bury my face in his neck to avoid looking at anyone.

Yes, yes, fine.

Also because this is never happening again and if I’m having a fairy-tale-princess moment, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it before reality destroys it all.

I could tell him that I can walk.

That I’m fine. Just a bit wobbly. It’ll pass now that I’m out of there.

But he’s carrying me down the hallway as if I’m light as a feather, and he smells like my dad used to—like bergamot and patchouli and safety—and I don’t want to let go.

“Is this another situation like you parking three inches over the line even though you claimed you were right on it?” he murmurs to me.

It takes me a minute to realize what he’s asking.

Did you fake being locked in the bathroom the way you faked having your bus on the line instead of three inches over?

“No,” I whisper.

“So you’re terrified of fire and confined spaces?”

“No. Yes. Sure.”

He chuckles, and the sound reverberates against me. “Sounds like quite the story.”

I don’t deserve this, but I want this.

To be taken care of.

“I really didn’t break the doorknob. I mean, apparently, I did, but it wasn’t on purpose. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“I believe you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Because you did break the doorknob?”

“Because I didn’t tell you why I wanted to come here.”

“It’s quite all right. I’m rather tipsy, so I’ll probably accidentally dump you down the stairs as I try to finish this role of playing hero tonight.”

I jerk my head up.

He gives me a lopsided grin.

“Oh my god, put me down.”

We’re almost to the stairs.

Tank is behind us.

Jake is nowhere in sight.

“I’m eighty-three percent certain that I can make it to the bottom of the stairs just fine.”

“ Simon . We can’t leave. We haven’t had dinner yet.”

He grins. “I bloody well can’t eat it without paying for sins I haven’t committed yet, so I daresay that your intentions will be best suited with us leaving this way instead.”

And then he sways.

Tank grabs him by the shoulders. “Put her down, boss.”

“Such a spoilsport.” He takes the first step down the staircase. “Tell me, Bea, what sort of meal were you planning to cook me to thank me for being the world’s best— hic! —date?”

“Nothing if you don’t put me down. I can’t cook with a broken arm.”

“I can make it,” he insists as he takes another step.

“So we’re definitely leaving?”

“Yes. In protest of the menu.” He hiccups again as he takes a third step.

If I try to fight to get down, we’re rolling all the way to the bottom of this staircase.

“But my bag?—”

“Tank shall— hic! —retrieve it.”

Two more steps. We’re two more steps down.

“Oh my god, are you acting ?” I whisper.

His smile grows exponentially larger. “Darling, I am utterly charmed by your belief in my acting skills.”

That wasn’t a yes.

It also wasn’t a no.

We’re halfway down now.

I lift the champagne bottle and take a gulp of it myself.

Maybe if I’m buzzed, falling the rest of the way down the stairs will hurt less.

“You haven’t answered my question about what you’re serving me for dinner,” he says pleasantly.

We’re on full display for half the people dining on the main floor, plus two couples peering around the hostess stand.

Oh god.

Oh shit.

Oh fuck.

There they are.

Mr. and Mrs. Camille.

Jake’s parents.

And— fuck me .

Logan. Logan and a date.

Watching Simon carry me down the stairs of Jake’s restaurant.

I think this is good.

Or possibly bad.

Maybe both.

Simon sways on the steps as he looks at me, waiting for an answer.

“Secret menu,” I blurt.

“Oh, Ms. Best, I am intrigued . Your last secret menu item was— hic! —remarkable.”

Two more steps.

We’re almost there.

He pauses and lurches to one side.

Tank growls and grabs his shoulders again.

“Don’t worry,” Simon says to me. “He won’t quit. The studio pays him too well. Mostly because of my boys, but, alas, also because of me. Tank. Please pay the hostess for our meal. I won’t have anyone saying we didn’t behave honorably in this sordid affair tonight. Charge it to the company card.”

Oh my god.

I think I’ve found a real-life hero.

Simon steps dramatically to the floor on the ground level, and this time, he sways hard.

Then hiccups.

Then giggles as he straightens both of us.

“Simon! Simon, wait,” Jake calls. “She’s playing you. Everyone thinks she’s this perfect, wonderful person, but they don’t know her like I do.”

Simon sighs deeply, lifting me with his inhale and somehow settling me even closer to his chest on his slow exhale.

And then he turns and looks up at Jake, who’s halfway down the steps.

People crowd around at the top of the stairwell.

All conversation has stopped in the two rooms on either side of us.

“When everyone else is always the problem, old boy, it’s time to look in a mirror.

Lana sends her— hic! —regards. No, wait…

That’s not what she said.” He squints at the ceiling as though he’s thinking.

“Ah, yes. Lana sends wishes that you spend your every day with the same affliction that I would have if I were to have dined on any of your dishes this evening. And I daresay a number of your diners tonight wish the same. Good day, sir.”

I spot Quincy at the top of the stairs, his mouth spread in a wide-open smile.

Simon carries me around the hostess stand—without knocking me into a doorframe or the stand or swaying at all—and strides past the Camilles without another glance, and directly out the door.

“That was—” I start, but I cut myself off when I spot the firetruck rolling into the circle drive. “Oh, shit.”

Three firefighters leap out as Ryker races across the street from the miniature golf course.

My brothers love that place.

“All solved, gentlemen,” Simon announces to the firefighters. “I saved the lady from the restroom. Though I daresay you might wish to inspect the remainder of the loo doors for broken locks before you depart.”

He sets me on my feet, holding me steady while I wobble.

The firefighters continue into the restaurant, probably for confirmation that a random drunk guest isn’t making things up.

“There’s no fire,” I call to Ryker. “I got locked in a bathroom.”

He slows.

Hudson, who’s on his heels, slows too, but he also grins. “No shit?”

“It was an accident.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I haven’t finished my date with your sister.” Simon takes the champagne bottle and lifts it for a long drink that has my eyes watering from watching him.

That’s a lot of bubbles down his throat at once.

“And you have to be drunk to finish the rest of this date with my sister?” Ryker says.

He’s still studying me head to toe.

Cracking his knuckles too.

“Absolutely,” Simon says. “Alcohol always makes tricksters more bearable.”

“Tricksters?” Ryker repeats.

“People who lie about their intentions.”

Hudson rolls his eyes. “Dude, I was there. You jumped to a conclusion about what Bea wanted and you just assumed you were right without asking her if it was possible that you and your ego got it wrong. Pop off. Bea, let’s go home.”

Simon eyes me.

My brothers eye me.

The limo glides to a stop behind the firetruck.

I could go home with my brothers.

Call it a night.

As far as my original intentions go, this has been a success.

But I hear Daphne whispering rocking chair test .

And it makes me smile. “No, you go home. I owe Simon dinner. The entire menu was cheese.”

“Including the salads,” Simon announces. “They were cheese salads. I saw them myself. Cheese salads with cheese dressings. Why on earth has this place been named after a fruit when all they serve is gastrointestinal distress?”

Oh my god.

I like him.

I do.

I don’t care if the smile thing is all an act.

He’s hilarious and he’s kind and I’m almost positive he’s drunk.

The man needs food.

Who am I to deny him that?