Free Fresh Ice by Sarah J. Bradley Page B

mothers and the mothers were hot, too!”
    Oh I looked upstairs. I only saw one woman that mattered.
    “Just pour me that swill you call ginger ale, and let me watch the game.”
    “Suit yourself. There was one I think was really in to you. Couldn’t take her eyes off you, like she was glued to you or something.” Chance pointed to the spot where Isabella Landry stood two nights earlier.
    “Yeah, you big dumb idiot! I came up here looking for that very woman that night! You told me you had no idea what I was talking about.”
    “Oh quit sulking. Look, that same woman, she was just in here.” Chance nodded toward the corner booth. “She was sitting right there, not five minutes ago. I’m surprised you didn’t bump into her on the stairs.”
    I probably did. “Was she with anyone?”
    “Not when she came in. Ordered the weirdest thing. Glass of red wine and a glass of ice.” Chance shook his head. “Yankees…what are you gonna do?”
    Quinn remembered her accent, only lightly laced with a hint of Nashville. She would sound Northern to everyone down here.
    “But she and the singer guy, the one you hate, had a conversation and then left.”
    “They left together? You’re sure?”
    “Yep.”
    Quinn drained the ginger ale wishing he could drink the image of Isabella with the folk singer out of his brain. Why would I think she didn’t have friends? She’s a grown woman. It’s not like she’s been frozen in time. Not really.
    But did it have to be that guy?
    His cell phone buzzed. Serena.
    Of course.
    ***
    “It’s weird, having dinner with me, isn’t it?”
    Izzy looked up from her plate of lasagna. “Not as weird as you thinking I could eat this much food.”
    Collier smiled over the rim of his wine glass. “Yes, one thing about the attractions of the Old Spaghetti Factory is that they’re good for boosting those who look like they could use a good meal.”
    “Are you saying I’m too thin?”
    Collier broke off a buttery piece of garlic bread and handed it to her. “Not if you’re in training for an Iron Man competition or something.”
    Izzy took the bread and sank her teeth into the buttery, garlicky delight. “I guess, over the years, I worked out a lot. I liked running. I had a membership to the gym. I like weight lifting, if you can believe that.”
    Collier reached over the table. “Put up your arm. Oh yeah, that is one massive gun you have.” Collier cleared his throat, sat back and smiled. “You have a lot of questions.”
    “How would you know that?” Collier always read me better than anyone else.
    “Well, it’s written all over your face.”
    “That’s spaghetti sauce.” She wiped her mouth with a linen napkin and took a sip of wine. “But you’re right. I have questions.”
    “So do I, but ladies first. Fire away.”
    She studied him. In the half light of the restaurant, the years dropped away from his face. “Why folk singing?”
    “Oh that’s easy. While you and Dad were spending endless hours on sit spins and figures, I was in my tree house listening to folk music, writing folk music, and dreaming of the day I could wander the earth singing folk music to middle-aged housewives who put on corsets once a year and truly, in their heart of hearts, believe they should have been born during the Renaissance era because it was so darn romantic.”
    Izzy smiled. “And there’s nothing more to it than that?”
    Collier shook his head. “Not really. I didn’t want a complicated life. I don’t mind singing about drama, but I didn’t want any real part of it.” He paused for a beat. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
    Izzy recognized the shadow darkening his features. He’s talking about me.
    “You made the right choice.”
    The naked honesty of her words hung between them, a cold cloud over the warm glow of reunion.
    “Hey, I think another glass of wine would be a good thing.” Collier waved to the waiter.
    Izzy bit her lip. Don’t talk about it.