“He has a wife. And that is not her.”
“What an ass.”
“Shouldn’t we do something?”
Owen cocks an eyebrow. “What do you expect to do? We’re not the moral police.”
“Yeah, but look at him. His wife is pregnant, and now his lips are on that lady’s hand. Maybe she doesn’t know he’s married.”
“He’s not wearing his wedding ring. She probably doesn’t.”
“Isn’t that even more of a reason to…I don’t know…kick him out?”
“He’s ordered three drinks with top shelf liquor already. I’m not kicking him out.”
“Fine.” I put my little pad of paper and pencil into my apron pocket. “I’ll do it.”
“Danielle,” Owen starts and reaches for my wrist. His fingers close around it, and while his hand is identical to Logan’s, his touch does nothing to me. It’s not electric. Doesn’t send a shiver down my spine or make a million butterflies take flight in my stomach. “We can’t kick him out for being a douchebag.”
“Well, you should.”
He lets go of my wrist and offers a sympathetic smile. Logan is the only one who knows the full details of why I left home, but Owen knows the Cliff’s Notes version.
“I shouldn’t encourage you,” he grumbles. “But wait until he’s paid. Then go ask how his wife is doing.”
A smile takes over my face. “You really are the evil twin.”
Owen gives me an over-the-top wink. “I wear that title proudly.” He shifts his gaze to Logan, and while I know they haven’t had time to talk yet today, I’m sure he’s aware something is up with him. It’s hard for me to grasp the whole “it’s a twin thing” when I have a shitty relationship with my sister, but those two are in sync without even trying.
I don’t want things to be weird between Logan and Owen. A sour feeling sinks heavily in my stomach. It’s one I’m all too familiar with. It starts as a slight stomach ache and ends with anxiety wrapping around me like an itchy sweater that clings to me, suffocating me, making my fingers tremble and my mind race.
The only way I know how to shut it off is with a shot of something dark and strong. Not a healthy coping mechanism, I know. It’s been a while since I felt the all-consuming anxiety, and it was one of the things I swore I’d avoid when moving to Eastwood.
My plan was to work hard, keep my head down, legs shut, and figure my shit out so I could get back on track.
Trouble is, I have no idea where that track leads or if I even want to get back on it.
I wait on a few more tables, running around like crazy to make drinks, take orders to the kitchen, and bring out food. We’re definitely going to have to hire people, which is a good problem to have.
Keeping an eye on Mr. Infidelity, I take out another tray of food and then stop by James to collect his tab. He paid in cash and told me to keep the change.
Score.
“How’s the pregnancy treating your wife?” I ask, folding the bills and slipping them into my apron pocket. “She was absolutely glowing when I saw her last week.” I flash a pretty smile and step back. Owen leans over the bar, entertained as he watches everything play out.
The pretty blonde who looks like she could easily be a Daisy or a Candy, jerks her hand out of James’s grasp.
“You’re married?”
Yep, poor girl didn’t know.
“I…I…it’s not like that,” James stammers, but it’s too late. Blondie gets up, throws her drink in his face and storms out of the bar. James sits there, stunned, as diet Coke rolls down his chin. Then he looks around, realizes everyone is looking at him, and hurries out of the bar, calling after the blonde.
Her name is Candy.
Feeling like I did my part to save at least one person from a cheating asshat, I grab my purse, the salad I packed, and head outside to take my break. It’s hot again today, and I love the heat. I exit through the back of the bar and sit on the little stoop, stretching my legs out in the sun.
I’m halfway through my salad when gravel crunches under someone’s feet. I look up, expecting to see Dean, Archer, or even Quinn, since they usually park around back and come in through this door. But instead of a friendly face, I’m greeted with a scowl.
“You fucking whore,” James sneers as he stumbles toward me. Right, he’s had several strong drinks already.
“You’re the whore,” I retort, putting the lid back on my salad before I set it down. Priorities, right?
“She called my wife,” he slurs.
“Not my problem.” I loop my arm through my purse strap and stand, reaching back for the door. My heart speeds up, and I’m well aware how dangerous a situation I’m in right now. James is drunk, and now he’s desperate and angry.