Feeling the telltale sign of hardening in the front of my pants, I shake off my legs and dig my heels into the ground. Anything to redirect my thoughts.
Tate reaches for the same spot I'm scraping, and her forearm brushes mine. The contact lasts maybe two seconds before we shift positions, but I feel it everywhere. My cock's hard now. As hard as it’s been for years. Since Marianne handcuffed me to the staircase and…
An engine cuts through the quiet. A familiar silver Lexus SUV with a rattling exhaust Marianne refused to fix so her dad would buy her a new one.
Goddammit. She's here.
Tate glances at me and follows my gaze to the street. Marianne parks at the curb and gets out, heels clicking on pavement, her hair and makeup perfect because, well, of course they are. I’m thinking, who wears heels this early?
"Tom, baby."
I straighten, putting myself between Marianne and Tate without thinking about it. "Go home, Marianne. You've caused enough trouble."
She stops three feet away and sees the window—faint pink ghosts where letters used to be, scrapers in our hands, a bucket of dirty water at our feet. I've known Marianne long enough to see the moment she switches to cold fury. "You cleaned it."
"What did you think I'd do? Leave it?"
"I did that for you!"
"I didn't ask for your help."
"She's competition! She's opening a bar next to yours, taking your customers, your parking spaces?—"
"She's not. She's opening a library cafe. Books and coffee. Not a bar."
Her forehead furrows. "What?"
"Not a dive bar. A cafe."
"Then why—" She looks confused, then angry again, cycling through emotions faster than I can track. "You complained about her constantly. Every time Eddie came in, you were ranting. The contractors, the noise complaints?—"
"I was annoyed. That's different from wanting you to vandalize her property. Wait, Eddie told you? Is he the reason why you always know everything happening to me?" The pieces are clicking together now, the full picture of how this happened.
Marianne's hands gesture wildly, punctuating every word. "He told my dad, and my dad told me. I thought … I was trying to help!"
There it is. Eddie’s at the bar every night, same beer for two hours, ears open, listening to Jason and me. Eddie loves drama more than his own life.
"I say a lot of things when I'm annoyed," I say carefully. "Doesn't mean I want someone to act on them."
"Eddie wouldn't lie! He's known you for years?—"
"Eddie heard what I said. What I said and what I meant are two different things." I scrub a hand through my hair, frustrated. "I complained. Yeah. But I didn't hate her. I don't hate her."
"Then what is she to you?" Marianne's voice cracks on the question. Her mascara is starting to run. "If you don't hate her,if she's not competition, if you're standing here early in the morning defending her and helping her, what is she to you?"
Ah, hell.
Tate is behind me, motionless, probably barely breathing. The sun is getting too hot on my shoulders, sweat trickling down my spine. This is it. The moment where I either lie or tell the truth, and lying would be easier, would get Marianne to leave faster, would let me avoid this conversation. But I'm tired of lying. Tired of pretending I'm just annoyed when I'm not. Tired of telling myself I don't notice Tate when I notice everything about her.
"I like her."
Marianne stares at me like I just spoke a language she doesn't understand. "What did you say?"
"I like her. I don't hate her. Never did. I actually like her. A lot."
The silence that follows is deafening. Marianne's face goes through several expressions—shock, hurt, anger, disbelief—settling on something that looks like grief. Her eyes are wet, and for a minute, she looks enraged. And because I never know what Marianne would do next, I prepare for an attack in case she tries to hurt Tate.
I just admitted out loud what I've been refusing to admit to myself for three weeks. Tate heard every word. There is no going back from this.