Page 118 of Bridesmaid Undercover
“You’re right,” he says. “Fuck, you’re so right.”
I am.Hardy only sees me as a friend. As a partner in his quest for Maple.I just want to cry.
“Polly won’t yell at me now that she’s seen us at the bridal shower. Maple seems to be able to talk around me. We even had a discussion about our past. I think I just need to put it all out there. Maybe…hell, maybe I’ll visit her at work and wait for her to get off. We could walk around the zoo, she can show me around, be in her element when I ask her.”
Yup, that would probably do it.
I slowly nod. “Great idea, Hardy. She’ll for sure say yes.”
“You think so?” he asks.
Our eyes meet. “I know so.”
“Well, thanks for dinner,”I say as we head out of the restaurant.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“So, I guess I’ll get going.”
His brow creases.
“Get going? You’re not going to walk off some of this cake with me?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“We nearly shared an entire half of a cake.” He pats his abdomen. “If I go home now, I’ll just lie in bed and grip my stomach, wondering why I made such bad choices. You can’t let me do that—you need to help me understand eating that cake was a good thing, so we need to walk.”
“Walk where?” I ask.
“Haven’t you ever enjoyed some window shopping, Plum?” He nods toward the bay where all the touristy shops are. “Come on, let’s go wander.”
My brain is telling me this is a bad idea. Very bad idea.
I should leave the man to wallow in his terrible cake-eating choices.
But my heart…my heart wants this. My heart wants more time with him. My heart wants to pretend that in some far-off land, this could be about me and him.
Deciding to make a bad decision, I say, “Where do you want to go?”
He smirks. “Follow me.”
Together, we head down the hill, toward Fisherman’s Wharf and bustling Jefferson Street. “Have you ever been down here?” he asks.
“Yeah, here and there, more toward the pier for the nuts,” I say. “But I’ve never really gone into any stores. I guess I’m not one to buy souvenirs of the place I live.”
“Why not?” he asks.
I shrug. “I don’t really know.”
“So you’re telling me you don’t have a San Francisco shirt?”
“Do you?” I counter.
He pauses and then turns to me, a look of surprise in his expression. He scratches the side of his head. “I don’t think I do have one.”
“Oh my God, and here you’re giving me grief.”
“You know, I think we need to right this wrong. I think we need to purchase San Francisco shirts today.”
