Well Played, стр. 33

“I know that,” I said. I probably said it a little too quickly, but I was pretty familiar with at least one of the hotels, and at least one of the acts who took advantage of our offer of rooms. A thrill had started taking hold in my chest the moment I’d volunteered for this. It didn’t make sense: Dex had nothing to do with contracts and hotel reservations. His cousin Daniel was the one who handled that minutiae. But there was still a part of me that was excited to see the Kilts listed as performers. Confirmation that he was coming back into my life. My real life.

If Mitch noticed my uncharacteristic eagerness, he didn’t say. “Yeah, so that’s basically it. You think you can handle it?”

I waved a hand. “No problem. Do you have a list of what you’re still waiting for?”

“Yep. Here . . .” He pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and sent me a text, judging from the answering beep that came from my phone in my bag hanging on the chair behind me. “That’s the password to the email account; just about everything is in there. I’ve got a spreadsheet with everything else. I’ll email that to you tonight.”

“That sounds perfect.” I wasn’t sure why I was so impressed at Mitch being that organized. It was easy to think of him being the fun guy who shoved tequila shots in my direction at Jackson’s, but the man coached football in the fall and baseball in the spring. Of course he was organized.

“You sure you don’t mind?” Simon’s words were careful, but I caught the meaning behind them. He knew, Emily knew, hell, probably Mitch knew, that I wasn’t exactly stellar when it came to organization and planning. It was a weakness, and something I wanted to get better at. I was great at big-picture stuff, and I could tell when things were going wrong, but details overwhelmed me. I wasn’t great at figuring out what puzzle pieces I needed to make that big picture happen.

But that wasn’t the case here. I had the big picture, and Mitch had all the puzzle pieces for me. I just needed to put them together.

“I don’t mind,” I said. “It’ll be fun.”

•   •   •

And it was fun, for a little while.

When I got home that night I downloaded Mitch’s spreadsheet to my laptop, and created a folder with all the other paperwork he’d sent. I logged on to the Faire’s business email account and sent out reminders to the acts that hadn’t confirmed. Easy. A warm thrill went through me when I saw that Dueling Kilts had already confirmed for the summer. Dex. I couldn’t wait to see him again, and that time was coming up so soon now.

Over the next couple weeks the last confirmations trickled in, and we had a full complement of acts for the summer. A few signed contracts were still outstanding, but most of them had come via email, so I wasn’t too concerned yet. Plenty of time.

When I left work one Friday in early June, there were two notifications on my phone. The first was a text from Mitch, saying that the last two contracts had been mailed to him, and to meet him at Jackson’s for happy hour and he’d pass them along. It sounded like a thinly veiled request for a drinking buddy, but what the hell. I didn’t have any plans.

The second notification was a short message from Dex, which I waited to read until I got to the bar. I wanted to savor it with my Friday night glass of wine while I waited for Mitch to show up.

To: Stacey Lindholm

From: Dex MacLean

Date: June 5, 4:37 p.m.

Subject: Weekend

A rare weekend off! This hardly ever happens. And what am I doing? Sitting here in a bar on my own. The other guys are off doing their own thing, and I couldn’t be bothered tonight. All I can think about is you. Which feels . . . strange, don’t you think? It’s been months since I’ve seen you, and I’m not even sure that you . . .

I’m not going to finish that thought. But I’m not going to delete it either. I’m just going to hit Send. July will be here before we know it.

That all sounded so vague, and almost ominous. I sipped my rosé and took a look around Jackson’s. No Mitch yet. I suppressed a sigh and ordered some mozzarella sticks. I never wanted to hear him complain about women taking too long to get ready for anything. I switched from email to text and tapped out a message to Dex.

What a coincidence. I’m alone at a bar myself right now. What do you like to drink when you’re drinking alone?

He wrote back right away. I don’t know if I like the thought of you drinking alone. I’m about halfway through a pint of Guinness right now. You?

I shuddered. Ugh. That stuff is too thick. You don’t drink it, you chew it. No, thank you.

Ha, he replied, dark beer is definitely not something you chug. But it’s my thing. Every new town, as soon as I check into the hotel, I head for the nearest bar and order the darkest beer they have. Usually it’s a Guinness and that’s fine, but sometimes I get surprised by a craft stout. Not so much refreshing as comforting. Really nice after a long drive. I sip it really slowly and center my brain, focusing on the shows ahead.

No shows this weekend, I texted back. What are you focusing on now?

The future.

I frowned. That was a vague reply. But before I could ask for clarification he changed the subject. But you didn’t answer my question. What are you drinking there, alone?

My mozzarella sticks arrived, and I took another sip of wine. Still no Mitch. Rosé, I responded. That’s *my* thing, I guess. Part of the whole