Tequila Rose (Tequila Rose 1)

“What did she tell you?” Griffin asks, and it’s surprising that he doesn’t get back to work. A prick travels up the back of my neck at how serious he seems right now. From the stern expression to the way his hands are clasped in front of him.

“Her name’s Bridget.”

“She didn’t tell you how old she is?” he asks and my pulse slows down just a tad when I shake my head. “She should be about three right now … a little older than three. You said you and Magnolia hooked up about four years ago?” I let the words sink in, and then the reality hits me.

There’s no fucking way. My next question comes out rough and I have to clear my throat to repeat it. “When’s her birthday?”

“Do I really need to tell you for you to put the pieces together?” Griffin asks.

Oh fuck.

Magnolia

“This graph is not my favorite thing in the world right now.” My comment is reserved for the soda can in my hand. I click, click and drop the link to it in the email, but I don’t send it yet. Instead I lean back, have a sip of my soda and note the downward trend.

It’s in direct correlation with the headline of Mandy’s email: Why are sales down?

The prints and even originals have dropped in sales recently and she wants to know why and what to do moving forward. Typing out my answer, I refer to the graph. Specifically, the last time we had new material to share on social media and update on the ad listings. We’ve got to keep it fresh and new with the products we’re promoting and the bottom line is, we haven’t gotten in a new artist or line for over a month now, so it makes sense that sales have declined in the last week and a half.

I’m confident in the explanation, but still, I grimace reading my response. I finish the drink and set the empty aluminum can on the end table before typing away with an update on the upcoming gala.

It’s all set. Everything is arranged. We could have an additional artist and drive someone new and upcoming for publicity.

Art never goes stale, but one thing is more important when it comes to marketing. Everyone loves the newest and even more than that … a sale. Bring them in with the new, hook them with the sale.

Nerves run through me, wracking my body as I hit send. It’s nearly nine and I’ve been working on this data analysis spreadsheet for five hours now. I’m so exhausted I could fall asleep right here. Between preschool, the list Mandy gave me to execute, and coming up with a solution to this very real problem, I have run myself into the ground this past week. More than that, I’m anxious that Mandy isn’t going to agree or want to go with any of the new artists I recommended.

Rubbing my tired eyes with the heel of my palms, I remind myself I’ve done everything I can. That’s all I can do.

Knock, knock. The knock at the door makes me hold my breath as I quickly turn around to stare down the hall. My eyes are laser focused on Bridget’s bedroom. As if I can see through the walls and know instantly if she woke up.

Shoot, shoot, shoot. I’m quick to set the laptop on the coffee table, nearly tossing it down to get to the door before whoever’s there can knock again.

Who would come over this late at night? The question makes me feel more annoyed as I unlock the lock and pull open the door.

Until I see Brody standing there.

The anxiousness from work? Nonexistent.

The annoyance that someone would wake up Bridget? Dulled.

Guilt-ridden nerves spread through every inch of me as I wrap my robe tighter around myself and feel the salty night breeze shift my hair off my shoulders … yup, that’s what takes over. Guilt.

All because of the look in his eyes. There’s a worry there, a knowing look. I can barely breathe as I swallow thickly. “Brody, you’re here late.”

My murmur is even and then, glancing behind me to check Bridget’s door one last time, I step outside and gently close the door behind me.

The stars are out tonight, the moon too and its light filters through the leaves of the overgrown trees that line the park out front. “You couldn’t call?”

My heart hammers, slowly but with precision at the sight of him. His black T-shirt is stretched across his broad shoulders, his striped shorts making him look like a model for some overpriced store at the mall a town over. But his hair is rumpled, and his expression lacking any charm, only hurt. His eyes tell me everything I need to know.

Still, I wait for him. “Bridget is sleeping… so,” I say and don’t bother finishing. The crickets from the park have made their presence known and it’s just them and us out here on my porch.