Suddenly One Summer

by Julie James

  “Let’s say worst-case scenario here. What if the bartender is friends with him, and he’s like, ‘I don’t remember Peter saying anything about having a date tonight.’”

  Ford shrugged. “Play it off. Say you just texted him back confirming the date a half hour ago. Or, act flighty and say you must’ve gotten the day wrong. A male bartender isn’t going to think you’re suspicious. Men are always clueless about what’s really going on in a woman’s head.”

  “True enough. But what if it’s a female bartender? What if I say I’m meeting Peter Sutter for a date and Peter Sutter is her boyfriend?”

  He thought about that. “Then you’d better run.”

  “Run?” She looked appalled. “That’s your suggestion?”

  “And you’re not going to get far in those heels, so I hope you know how to throw a decent punch.” He grinned when he caught her look. “I’m kidding. Look, think about what we do know about Peter Sutter. He’s good-looking, and he’s the kind of guy who ditches a woman while she’s sleeping after picking her up at a bar. Sounds like a player to me—odds are, he doesn’t even have a girlfriend.” Seeing a parking spot on the street about a half block away from their destination, he pulled to the side and reversed in.

  He turned off the car and angled in the seat to face her. “Don’t be nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous. Just . . . out of my element.”

  He smiled, having a feeling that was a rare occurrence for her. “You’ll do great, Victoria.”

  She tilted her head to the side, as if considering this. “Probably, yes.” Then she gave him a little smile to say she was joking. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  They both got out of the car, and he walked over to feed the parking meter. She leaned her hip against the hood, watching as he put the receipt on the dashboard.

  “I’ll walk in ahead of you and find a spot away from the bar,” he told her. “Wait for my text, then you go in. If the bartender does know Peter Sutter, you’ll have to improvise a bit. Don’t seem too eager, but try to find out where he lives. Anything that we can cross-reference against our list. Say something like, ‘I think he mentioned that he lives close to here,’ that kind of thing.”

  Victoria blew out a breath of air. “Okay. I just thought of another worst-case scenario.”

  He hid a smile, thinking she was kind of cute when out of her element. “Technically, I think there can only be one worst-case scenario.”

  “What if I walk in and ask about Peter Sutter, and the bartender points to some guy and says, ‘Sure, that’s Pete, right over there!’”

  Hell, they should be so lucky. “Not exactly sure what’ll happen then. But it’ll probably include me saying a few four-letter words to the dickhead.”

  That settled, Ford strode off in the direction of the bar.

  * * *

  LOCATED IN THE heart of the River North neighborhood, Public House, a so-called gastropub according to the online research Ford had done, was bigger and trendier than most sports bars he’d frequented. Sure, there was the requisite wood paneling and TVs on the walls, but the crowd seemed more “urban professional hoping to hook-up” than actual sports fan.

  He told the hostess he was meeting someone and asked for a quiet booth away from the bar. Once seated, he surveyed the scene. There were two bartenders working that evening, a man and a woman, and only a couple of open seats at the bar.

  A waitress stopped by his table to take his drink order. Bypassing the self-serve beer taps built right into the booth, he ordered a bottle of Robert the Bruce.

  All set, he texted Victoria after the waitress left. Take the open seat on the left side of the bar. From there, he would have the quickest access in case he needed to step in, in the highly unlikely event that anything went awry once she began asking questions about Peter Sutter.

  Moments later, she walked in.

  Ford pretended to be distracted by his phone, but out of the corner of his eye he watched as she took a seat at the bar and crossed one high-heeled leg over the other.

  The female bartender approached Victoria and took her order. After she walked away, Victoria checked out the other patrons seated at the bar, pretending as though she was looking for someone. After her drink arrived—something in a cocktail glass—she began chatting up the bartender. Ford couldn’t hear what was being said, but from Victoria’s smile, and her gestures, and the way the female bartender chuckled and nodded along, the conversation appeared to be going well.

  He guessed the moment Victoria mentioned Peter Sutter’s name, judging from the way the bartender furrowed her brow as if thinking and then shook her head. Then the female bartender gestured for the male bartender to come over, and there was more gesturing and explaining the situation, and more smiles from Victoria, and then the male bartender shook his head.

  The waitress, who’d been standing at the bar to pick up an order, joined the conversation, and although she, too, shook her head no at what Ford presumed to be the Peter Sutter question, she launched into some story that had all of them laughing. Then she headed off in the opposite direction, carrying a tray of drinks, and the bartenders got back to work.

  Victoria pulled out her phone, as if checking her messages. A moment later, Ford’s phone chimed with a new text.

  No luck.

  He wasn’t surprised—it had been a long shot, but a lead worth checking out nevertheless. He set his phone on the table and looked up, just in time to see the male bartender moving closer to Victoria. The guy gestured to her phone, making a big show of looking indignant, and Ford had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. He could only imagine the lame line the guy was giving her. Where is this Peter Sutter, anyway? What kind of jerk leaves a beautiful woman like you waiting?

  When Victoria smiled in return, Ford decided to head over. Time for this twentysomething bartender with the spiky blond hair to go . . . make a gin and tonic or something.

  He tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Are you Victoria?”

  She turned around and gave him a curious look—they hadn’t discussed this part of the plan. “I am.”

  Ford held out his hand and smiled. “I’m Peter Sutter.”

  Fifteen

  CARRYING HER DRINK, Victoria followed her “date” back to the booth and took a seat across from him. “Peter Sutter, huh?”

  Ford appeared pleased with himself for the joke. “We hadn’t discussed a specific exit strategy, so I improvised.”

  They paused when the waitress came by to drop off two menus at their table. She winked approvingly in Ford’s direction. Staying in character, Victoria smiled back—Yep, I hit the blind-date jackpot with this one.

  “So. We struck out,” Ford said, after the waitress left. “Although, on the upside, you didn’t have to hightail it out of here in your heels.”

  This was true. Both bartenders and the waitress hadn’t seemed at all suspicious about her story; in fact, they’d been quite friendly. “None of them knew a Peter Sutter, or even any regular customer named Peter or Pete. So we’re back to our list of eleven candidates.”

  “Ten, hopefully, after tomorrow. I have a contact at the FBI office who’s going to pull Peter Sutter Number One’s mug shot for me.”

  “An FBI contact—aren’t you resourceful?” She raised an eyebrow when Ford handed her one of the menus. “Are we actually staying for dinner?”

  “Of course, it’s part of our cover.” He gave a subtle nod in the direction of the bartenders. “They think we’re on a date, remember?”

  Hmm. Interesting, how that had worked out. But, seeing how it was dinnertime and the bar’s menu had a Wagyu brisket dip on a butter roll, she decided to go with the flow. Just this once.

  When she looked up from the menu, she saw that Ford was studying her. “What?”

  “I’ve been wondering something. Where’s your cavalcade?”

  She wasn’t following. “What do you mean, my cavalcade?”

  “When we first met, you said you’re a
big believer in casual dating. Yet, I haven’t seen one guy come around since you moved in. This isn’t some all-work-and-no-play kind of thing, is it?”

  She gave him a look. “No, it’s not an all-work-and-no-play kind of thing. It’s just . . . been an off couple months for me.”

  “How so?”

  “For starters, back in May, two guys broke into my townhome while I was sleeping.”

  Ford frowned. “Did they hurt you?”

  “No. But regardless, I didn’t feel comfortable living there afterward, so I put my townhome on the market, bought the condo in the Trump Tower, and then moved into the loft. Between all that, and work”—and starting therapy for this little panic problem—“I guess my social life has been on the back burner.”

  “I didn’t know about the break-in,” he said after a moment.

  “Why would you? Besides, it’s in the past now.” With the exception, of course, of the tiny, aforementioned panic problem—a subject that most definitely would not be coming up tonight.

  He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. “All right. But how about pre-break-in? Just how casual of a dater are we talking here? Heartless love-’em-and-leave-’em type, or more a serial monogamist?”

  Victoria took a sip of her cocktail. “You’re awfully curious tonight.”

  “It’s the journalist in me.”

  So they were doing this now, getting personal. Okay, good. Come to think of it, after these couple of weeks of living next door to each other, she was a little curious about him, too. “How about option C, neither heartless love-’em-and-leave-’em type nor serial monogamist? I like keeping things simple and fun. No obligations, no expectations, no endgame of a marriage, two-point-five kids, and a minivan in the suburbs. I have self-selected out of the happily-ever-after rat race, so to speak.”

  “You don’t believe in marriage?”

  “I don’t think every marriage is doomed. But these days, you’ve got as good of odds as a coin flip of finding one that will go the distance. And in the eight years I’ve been a divorce lawyer, I haven’t seen much that inspires me to try my luck.”

  Ford was giving her an amused look.

  “What?” she asked in exasperation.

  “I’ve just never had a woman say that before on a date.”

  “It’s a fake date. And welcome to 2015.”

  He laughed. “You’re just so . . .” He trailed off, his expression a mixture of frustration and something else she couldn’t read.

  “Beguiling? Irresistible?” she offered.

  “Not exactly the words I had in mind.”

  They were interrupted when the waitress dropped by to take their orders. Starving after her first foray into undercover work—and a darn good performance, if she did say so herself—Victoria ordered the hand-cut fries with dips as an appetizer along with her brisket sandwich.

  “Make that two,” Ford told the waitress, then picked up right where their conversation had left off. “Okay, so marriage doesn’t inspire you. What about kids? Is that something you’re considering down the road?”

  “Maybe.” Victoria shrugged. “I don’t know how I’ll feel in a couple years, so I’ve taken precautionary measures to keep that option open.”

  “‘Precautionary measures’? What does that mean?” He took a sip of his beer.

  “I had my eggs frozen when I was thirty.”

  He paused, mid-sip, and then set his beer bottle back down. “That’s . . . very forward-thinking.”

  “Maybe it seems that way now, but I predict that in five, ten years, it’s going be an option a lot more women consider.” She leaned in. “Let’s be honest, it’s an advantage you men have in the dating game, a chip you wield over us—our biological clocks. How many times have I seen a woman, like me, single in her thirties, successful in her career, but she’s in a near panic when it comes to her personal life because she wants kids and she’s done the math: she has to meet a guy by the time she’s this age, so she can get married by this age, and pregnant a year later. I say the hell with that. I will decide if and when I’m ready to have kids. I’m not about to cede control over that to Fate, waiting around for Mr. Right to show up on my doorstep.” She paused, catching that.

  Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  “Wow.” Ford rested his arms on the table. “I can’t decide if I’m frightened by you on behalf of the entire male gender, or really fucking turned on.”

  She flashed him a grin. “All part of my allure.” Taking another sip of her cocktail, she decided it was time to turn the tables. “So what about you? Why are you still single?”

  “Maybe I’m no one’s idea of Mr. Right.”

  “I’m not even going to stroke your ego by responding to that.”

  He gestured vaguely. “You’ve heard it all before. Afraid of settling down, don’t want to lose my freedom, enjoying playing the field . . . the usual stuff.”

  Yes, Victoria had heard it all before. But with several years’ experience deposing people and cross-examining them on the witness stand, she’d gotten pretty good at sensing when someone was holding back. And there was something about Ford—perhaps that touch of wariness lurking in the depths of those blue eyes—that made her think there might be more to his single status than this rote list of thirtysomething male commitment angst.

  She tabled the issue when their French fries and dips arrived. After asking Ford about work, she learned that he’d discovered an interest in writing in college, and had started as a beat reporter in the Trib’s metro department after graduation. From there he’d worked his way up to the position of investigative journalist.

  “It’s a different way of approaching a story,” he explained. “Beat reporters tell you what happened—the straight-up facts. For example: so-and-so got arrested for such-and-such crime. An investigative journalist, on the other hand, might look at how the arrest was handled, or why this person was arrested when there doesn’t seem to be much evidence, or why the police aren’t looking at this other guy over here.”

  “Basically, you’re just nosy.”

  “I like to think of it as asking the bigger questions. Digging a little deeper to find the real story.” He gestured. “Take you, for example.”

  She pulled back in surprise. “Me?”

  “Sure. I’ve been trying to figure you out for a couple weeks now. Then you made that comment the other night about your father, that you haven’t seen him for over twenty years.”

  “So? What does that tell you?”

  “For starters, I’m guessing your parents were either never married or got divorced,” he said.

  “Divorced.”

  “And can I also assume that your mom raised you?”

  “She did.”

  “See? There’s the story,” Ford said. “Divorce lawyer, raised by a single mom yourself, you go out of your way to help my sister, also a single mother. Do you know what that tells me?”

  Probably, she didn’t want to know. “I didn’t go out of my way,” she scoffed. “Your sister was crying in the hallway while pushing a baby stroller. I asked if she wanted to wait for you in my place, and everything spiraled from there.” She pointed a French fry at him. “You want your story? You Dixons have invaded my life, that’s the story.”

  He shook his head. “I think you have a soft spot, Victoria Slade.”

  Something about the way he was looking at her made her think of Audrey’s comment the other evening.

  You could knock on his door, have great sex with a gorgeous man, and be home in less time than it takes to get a mani-pedi.

  Still not a good idea.

  But when he looked at her that way, it took her a moment to remember why.

  * * *

  IT WAS DARK outside by the time they left the bar and drove home. In their parking garage, Ford asked when she’d started her own firm, which led into a conversation about one of her very first cases.

  “They were two of the most stubborn people I’ve
ever met in my life,” she said, as they walked to the elevator. “The husband and wife both refused to move out of the house while the divorce was pending, so they drew a line down the middle and each stayed in their respective half.”

  Ford laughed, punching the up button. “Get out of here. That’s like something out of a sitcom.”

  “I’m completely serious. They used painter’s tape on the floor to make the line and everything.”

  “How does that even work? How do you divide a kitchen in half?”

  “Oh my God, the kitchen . . . No, you can’t divide it in half, so we had to negotiate a schedule of the hours each of them could use it. The other lawyer and I spent two days fighting over things like who got to eat breakfast first, or the wording of clauses that required each party to be responsible for cleaning up his or her own dishes.” They stepped into the elevator. “It’s funny now, but at the time I kept thinking, ‘I did not work my ass off in law school for ridiculous shit like this.’”

  She smiled at the memory as the elevator doors closed, and leaned back against the wall. Then she noticed Ford was watching her. “What?”

  “Just thinking how different things might have been if the blond woman hadn’t sat next to me that night at The Violet Hour. Right at the moment you looked over.”

  “How so?”

  “For starters, I wouldn’t have ended up hanging out with the bachelorette party. And there wouldn’t have been any Charlotte, nor any Charlotte waking you up in the middle of the night a week later and getting you all cranky with me.”

  “Who knows? Maybe everything would’ve happened exactly the same way.”

  “Doubtful. I was about ten seconds away from walking over to you before the blonde sat down, and if that had happened . . . Well, let’s just say I’d planned to be pretty charming.”

  The elevator reached their door. “Awfully confident there, are you?” she asked, as they stepped out and began walking down the hallway.

  “You’ve already admitted there was a vibe between us.”