I grab a little sandwich from a roaming tray and hang my clutch from the crook of my elbow. I’d like to grab about three more, but Claire takes me to meet the birthday boy. Eighty-year-old Chester doesn’t look a day over ninety-five, but everyone keeps telling him how young he looks for his age. I usually have no problem embellishing, but I can’t get the lie out, so I just wish him happy birthday.
“Well, at least you’re not one of those girls with a skirt so short it might as well be a belt.”
I recognize that voice and turn to look into the steely eyes of Old Edie. “No, ma’am.” If it wasn’t for her hunched shoulders, she’d be my height. If it wasn’t for Harold caving in on himself, he might be half her height.
“Hello, sir.” He might be old as dirt, but he looks very distinguished in his dark brown suit. “You look quite handsome tonight.”
He turns to Old Edie. “What’d she say?”
“You look handsome,” she says, loud enough to be heard halfway across the room.
“What?” He puts a hand to his ear.
“She’s flirting with you, Harold!”
Now it’s my turn to ask, “What?”
“I’m quite taken, young lady.”
Old Edie cackles. “Don’t let him fool you. He loves women fighting over him.”
“Find a man your own age,” he adds.
I feel my cheeks burn. I don’t think finding a man my own age will be a problem—when I get around to looking. Which I think will be soon. My body might be thirty, but I’m twenty-five and in the prime of my sexuality. “You’ve come off your spool. Both of you,” I say, and head to the bar. I need tequila.
Halfway across the room I spot a familiar face. He’s too big and dark to blend with the cookie-cutter Thoroughbreds in this room.
“Edie!”
A woman steps in front of me.
“Everyone’s heard about yo
ur little accident.” She leans in and does the air-kiss. “You poor thing.”
My gaze returns to the bar and the back of Oliver’s suit jacket. The last time I saw him, he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
“I can’t imagine.”
“Bless your heart.” I step around her and continue toward my target.
I slide between Oliver and another man at the bar. “Miss me?”
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Like a three-day hangover,” he says, and his gaze continues down to my backside, which I must say looks amazing in this dress.
“You don’t appear all that unhappy to see me.”
“You don’t know how I appear when I’m unhappy. You have amnesia.”
“Margarita,” I tell the bartender, and hand over my empty wineglass. “Amnesia doesn’t have anythin’ to do with my eyesight, and I see you checkin’ me out.”
“What do you want, Edie?”
I’m young and feeling sexy and he’s mighty fine in his navy-blue suit, white shirt, and blue-and-red-striped tie. We don’t get a lot of men dressed like this in Marfa. He looks good and smells better, and it’s been a long time since I flirted with a man. I set my elephant-shaped clutch on the bar and say, “Take a guess, cowboy.”
His green eyes stare into mine with cool detachment. “Like everyone else in your life, you want me to kiss your ass.”
“No.” I pick up my margarita and take a sip. Feeling sexy is something new to me and I like it. “Unless you’re insistin’ on it.”