Tequila Rose by Willow Winters (any book recommendations .TXT) 📗

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.

“You have a daughter?”

“Yes … I told you.” Even to my own ears, it sounds like an excuse.

“Who’s three?” he asks, and the light in his eyes dims.

“Yes,” I answer and swallow a lump of spikes in my throat. The unspoken question surrounds us and it threatens to be spoken if I don’t speak up myself: How could you not tell me?

“I don’t know … who the father is,” I say and it hurts to admit the truth. Brody’s sneakers smack down on the pavement as he turns his back to me. At first, I think he’s leaving, and it kills something inside I wanted to protect, but he’s only moved to sit on the porch step.

Tears leak from the corner of my eyes and I’m quick to brush them away, grateful he doesn’t see. I dealt with this shame years ago; I don’t want to go back to the girl I was back then.

“I was getting over my ex when we met at the bar.”

“Robert.” Brody says the name, clearly up to date.

“Yes,” I say and slowly, very slowly, I join him on the porch, taking a seat next to him and using the railing to lower me down.

His shoulders are hunched and the crickets pipe up once again in our silence.

“How could you not tell me?” I knew he would ask, but I still wasn’t prepared for how much it would hurt to hear him say it like an accusation.

“I left that week and I didn’t find out for two more months …” I still remember that moment. Having nothing, having no one and then realizing I hadn’t gotten my period since I’d been back. “I was shocked and I didn’t have your number or—”

“You knew where I was staying,” Brody cuts me off to insist, allowing both disappointment and anger to leak into the accusation.

“I didn’t. I was drunk, Brody. I didn’t even know your last name. I … was reckless and—” My throat tightens, explaining everything all over again. Feeling the shame and the remorse. I shouldn’t feel those emotions about my baby girl. I hate that I’m back in that place I was years ago. Feeling just as alone and like the scarlet letter on my chest is burning brighter than it did back then.

I sniffle, fighting back the tears, knowing that this is what