Page 97 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“Hers.”

The waiter looked back to Bree, who was watching a woman slip off her coat of feathers. What if she botched up his opportunity? What if Chip had been going to something important Monday morning—she’d seen his face, his fresh suit, he had to be—and she had ruined it all?

The thought had visited her frequently—and with each visit, killed her—the past week.

There was a discreet cough and Bree jerked her head up. The waiter was still there, looking at her. “No shrimp for you, miss?”

“Oh. Yes. No shrimp. Thanks.”

The waiter gave a prim nod and drifted away. Bree turned to Theo. She attempted an easy smile. “Thanks for catching that.”

“No problem. I’ve heard those shellfish allergies are easy to forget about,” Theo replied. Though his smile was mirthful, his eyes held hers.

“So,” Bree said, trying to sound upbeat as she pulled down the hem of her dress again. “Tell me, what’s new in the great grand world of corporate finance?”

It took a moment before Theo blinked and stirred. He seemed to put his thoughts aside to take up the unexpected conversation. “This week one of my clients did make an interesting decision with one of his de novo banks in Asheville. It’s not final yet, but . . .”

Even as she stared at his face and focused on his words, she felt his voice starting to grow distant. His perfectly shaped mouth spoke, paused, took a sip of red wine, and continued speaking, but all she could focus on was the rhythm of his movements. Speak, pause, sip, repeat. Speak, pause, sip, repeat.

Her feet started tapping silently on the old hardwood floor beneath her, sliding to the steps.

Flap-flap-step-step-brush-hop-step, repeat.

Flap-flap-step-step-brush-hop-step, repeat.

Which reminded her: she had an audition in a matter of days. She had to wear tap shoes. Which were currently in her house. Across from Chip. Whose dreams may or may not have been destroyed. By her.

“But what do you think?”

Bree’s toes halted halfway through a scrape across the worn hardwood. “Oh,” she began, trying to replay the conversation she had missed. “I quite agree.”

His face was deadpan. “Really. You agree.”

Bree felt herself hesitate, as though she was one foot away from stepping in a trap. Her metaphorical foot lingered over the hole. Felt the draft. Pulled back. “Well, not always. You’d know much more than me. So . . .” She cast her eyes around, searching for anything to talk about. They floated across the dimly lit room full of flickering white votives, white linens, and waiters sliding around couples while carrying trays of Cajun-fried crawfish tails and crème brûlées. They landed on his sharp suit, impeccable, as it always was.

Why had Chip been wearing that suit that day? He never wore suits. A crisp dark blue that showed off the amount of time he spent in the sun out with his dog, biking through the pines between earth and sky. His neck looked particularly tanned. Especially—she swallowed, burning with fresh embarrassment—as he jerked at his tie in frustration, staring at that houseboat, stranded behind the wheel.

“Here we are,” the waiter said, setting down bowls of soup she had no memory of ordering. She looked down at the mystery soup, seeing what appeared to be noodles, and picked up her spoon.

“Bree, is there something you’d like to talk about?”

She realized she was grimacing over her soup.

She looked up.

Theo sat there with his hands folded, a smile playing on his lips. The kind of smile she had a feeling psychiatrists used to coerce conversations out of patients. Slowly, she put her spoon down.

Should she tell him she had been in the middle of a neighborhood war? That there had been a cease-fire? That she had botched it by bringing in a zoo?

He’d think she was crazy.

Maybe she was.

No.

Yes. Absolutely. Positively. Was.

Bree pursed her lips as if thinking.