And discovered that she had chosen the damn coconut slice, one of her very least favorite flavors ever. There was good, there was bad, and then there was coconut. Her mouth automatically opening in horror, she looked around for a napkin, the flavor invading and offending every single one of her taste buds. Feeling like she might gag from the texture, she worked the cake forward with her tongue, debating just chucking it out of her mouth and into her champagne glass.
A hand shot out in front of her mouth and Evan said, “Just spit it out.”
She only paused for a second before depositing the vile waxy coconut hunk into Evan’s hand. “Oh, my God, thank you. Coconut. Ick. That was so freaking gross—”
Tuesday forgot the rest of her sentence when she looked up and realized that it wasn’t Evan next to her. It was Diesel Lange. Retired driver. The man she had cried on at her father’s funeral.
And the man she had now just spit chewed-up cake into his outstretched palm.
Oh. My. God. She felt heat flood her face as she stared at him, trying to think of something, anything to say. “Sorry,” was the best she could manage. “I thought you were Evan.”
It was a lame explanation, but how did you really explain regurgitation onto total strangers?
His eyebrows furrowed. “Why would you think I was Evan?”
“Because I was meeting Evan.” Tuesday licked her lips, still tasting the coconut, still feeling like an ass. “I don’t usually just spit out food into random people’s hands, you know.” Food she realized he was still holding. “God, that’s so gross, I’m sorry.”
She reached out and grabbed the cold, mushy, spit-filled blob off his hand. It left a slimy smear across his skin. “Crap, sorry.” She was tempted to lick it off, but figured that would make it worse. A lot worse. She didn’t imagine any man wanted a woman to just lick them at a wedding reception.
Then again, maybe men did.
The oven her face had become burned a little hotter.
But he just gave her a lopsided smile. “Quit apologizing. I’m the one who stuck my hand out. I don’t like coconut either, so I’m glad I could help. The texture makes me want to hurl.”
She felt slightly better, or at least she would when that saliva trail across his hand was gone. First she’d snotted on his dress shirt at the funeral, now she’d spit on him. Classy.
“Let me get you a napkin.” Which now that she was glancing around, she saw they were plenty on the corner of the table, but they were blending into the tablecloth, which had created this moment of horror for her. “Here.” Grabbing several off the top of the stack, she scrubbed at his hand with it. “I can’t believe I spit on you.”
His other hand reached out and stilled her, wrapping loosely around her wrist. “Stop. A little saliva never killed anyone.”
“I don’t have any communicable diseases, just so you know.” Oh, God, did she really just say that? Tuesday downed the rest of her glass of champagne.
Diesel burst out laughing. “That is good to know. But I wasn’t worried.”
Then he just . . . looked at her. Tuesday wondered if he remembered who she was. Wondered if she was supposed to acknowledge that she had cried on him. But what if she said something and he didn’t recognize her? She glanced ruefully into the bottom of her empty glass.
What was the most disconcerting of all was that she had never been the type of woman who worried about things like this. She was no stranger to voicing her opinion, and she had never lacked for confidence. You couldn’t be missing either if you wanted to be successful in the field of sports reporting. So why she was standing there wide-eyed and mute like an anime cartoon girl she did not understand. That shit had to stop.
“I was meeting Evan at the bar. I should head on over there,” she said. “Come with me and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“It’s an open bar.”
She grinned. “I know. But it’s the thought that counts.”
He smiled back, a crooked smile that sent a shiver racing up her spine. Hello. She’d just felt the first jolt of sexual interest she’d had in months. It had been instantaneous when the corner of his mouth had risen slowly and slyly, and Tuesday cleared her throat, suddenly unnerved. He was tall, with shaggy dark blond hair and some short facial hair that she felt the urge to touch to test its softness.
She knew he was single.
And she knew herself well enough to know that she needed to get the hell away from him as soon as possible.
But he held his arm out for her. Like a gentleman does to escort a woman somewhere. “Lead the way, Tuesday,” he told her.
There was no way to avoid slipping her own arm through his without being totally rude, so she did, clutching the empty glass in her free hand, and trying not to look up at him. He had used her name. Did that mean he did remember her or he had just heard her name announced as maid of honor at the beginning of dinner?
But she was Tuesday Jones, damn it, and even though she hadn’t felt stronger than a wet napkin the last few months, she at least needed to thank this man. “By the way,” she told him, forcing her head to lift to look at him, “thanks for letting me bawl on you in the cemetery. I appreciate you tolerating the crazy girl.”
He sidled a look down at her that she couldn’t read. It was sympathetic, yes, but there didn’t seem to be any pity in it. It was something else, another emotion, but then again, maybe it was just the light playing off his pale blue eyes.
“No problem. I’m glad I could be there for you. Your dad was a good guy, and I’m really sorry for your loss.”
Tuesday drew up short a foot from the bar. He knew her dad? Well, duh, of course he knew her father. Over the years her dad had probably interviewed him a dozen times. Her brain wasn’t firing at full neurons lately. “Thanks,” she murmured, setting the champagne glass down on the bar before it slipped from her sweaty palm.
“What the hell took you so long?” Evan asked, grinning from ear to ear as he swaggered over to them, his tie askew. “Change your mind, wimp out on me?”
Her emotions were swirling close to the surface, thoughts of her father’s extensive career as a sports journalist suddenly thrust in front of her by Diesel Lange, and she wiped her hand down the front of her pumpkin-colored dress. Who thought of pumpkins in August? It made no sense. But the orange color scheme was what Kendall had wanted, and Tuesday guessed maybe it was supposed to be more tropical than fall foliage.