I introduced her to my friends.
“What book are you discussing?” Pressly asked, looking nervous.
“This is more like a drink and bitch session,” Gabi said.
“Perfect.” Pressly took a seat. “I have to pack up my child and drive to Atlanta for a weekend with her absentee father.”
Sloane grabbed a pretzel from the bowl on the table and popped it in her mouth. “The groom from that bachelor party just asked for my number,” she said.
Gabi took a sip of her wine. “My son is failing Spanish and might get kicked off the basketball team.”
“The rapist I was prosecuting just walked on a technicality,” Mia said.
Everyone turned to me, and I shrugged. “I cleaned up a lot of dog shit.”
We were all laughing when our waitress stopped at the table.
“Hi, Becky,” Pressly said.
The waitress smiled, clearly pleased the boss knew her name. “What can I get you Mrs. Carleton?”
We ordered our drinks, and when the waitress left, I asked about Summer.
“She’s doing better.” Pressly’s tentative smile bloomed. “She’s even made a friend.”
“Kaylee?” I guessed, thinking of Chelsea at the carpool line. Had Summer been invited to the sleepover?
“No,” Pressly said. “A little boy. It’s sweet. He’s another bookworm like her. I swear, between my daughter and my brother I’m surrounded by book lovers.” Pressly suddenly remembered who she was talking to and smiled sheepishly. “No offense,” she said to the table.
“No offense taken,” I said amiably.
“Thank God Thatcher was too busy with his cabinets to come tonight,” Mia said. “He might try to make us discuss books.”
“Thatcher?” The color drained from Pressly’s face. “You don’t mean Thatcher Hayes?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You know him?”
Pressly’s eyes glazed over. She looked as if she was a million miles away. “I thought he lived in D.C.”
“He moved to Mossy Oak to take over Hyperbole’s about five years ago,” Gabi said. “Before that, he was in the Army.”
Thatcher was like a brother to all of us, but he and Gabi had known each other the longest. They were the closest, and they had the military in common. Gabi’s husband was a soldier who had died in Afghanistan when Shane was four years old.
“Thatcher joined the Army?” Pressly asked, her eyebrows drawing together. “Did he fight?”
Gabi eyed Pressly warily. “He doesn’t talk about his days in the military,” she said. “How do you know Thatcher?”
Two splotches of color stained Pressly’s cheeks. “Is he still sinfully good-looking?”
“Yes,” we all replied at once.
Gabi pulled her phone from her purse and scrolled through her photos until she found one of Thatcher. He was sitting by a pool with a cocktail in his hand, wearing a shit-eating grin and a pair of sky-colored shorts that made his eyes look impossibly blue.
Pressly grabbed the phone for a closer look, her jaw dropping. The waitress deposited our drinks, and Pressly reached for her wine. She took a gulp, swallowed, and then looked each one of us in the eye. “This goes no further than this table.”
We all nodded, leaning closer.
“I lost my virginity to him when I was sixteen years old,” Pressly said.
