Sloane ended up buying the safe mermaid outfit and cheered up enough during their shopping montage that she decided on a party outfit that was a little more daring. Then her mood went even higher as she thought about the free food she was about to eat. So much so that, when a sign let them know about a bar coming up on the right, she actually did a little jump in the passenger’s seat, venting some of the pent-up excitement.

“Oh my God, let’s go there,” she yelled. It made Emma jump. The kindergarten teacher adopted a look that probably set little kids straight. Luckily, she saw the bar’s name and belayed her wrath before it could envelop Sloane.

“The Drinking Spot. Isn’t that the bar that’s competing with Cassidy’s Place?”

Sloane nodded.

Even if she and Brady were through, the fact was, she still felt like she needed to prove him wrong. That she was doing work to help the bar. It was just work he didn’t understand.

“Want to be spies while we eat?”

Emma flipped the blinker on.

“As long as you agree that we aren’t going to do anything reckless, I’m in.”

…

Brady was staring at not one, not two, but seven boxes of tampons. Some were sporty. Some were scented. Super, regular, slim. One even claimed to be pocket-size.

All were sitting on his coffee table.

Dixon was across from them, fingers steepled in front of his face, staring at the collection in deep thought.

“When I heard you walking around out here, this isn’t what I expected to find.” Brady took a seat in the armchair next to the couch. Dixon looked at him, and there was a surprising amount of fire behind his eyes.

“You want to know what a goddamn travesty is? How dang expensive these things are!” Dixon picked up the box closest to him and shook it. There was a cartoon woman on the box playing soccer. It was very festive. “Guess how much just this one set me back?”

Brady opened his mouth to answer, but Dixon was on a roll.

“Damn near seven dollars! And don’t even get me started on the pearl one. I close to lost it when she rang that up.” He threw the box down. “And women need to use these every month, Brady. Every. Month. How the hell do they afford it?” He shook his head, disgusted. “I was going to only put a few of these out at the party, but I have half a mind to throw them all in the bathroom with a sign that says, ‘Sorry about America.’”

“So you’re still doing the tampon platter for the party, I take it.”

Dixon nodded. “I’m telling you, it’s a service every bar should have.”

Brady laughed. Not at the idea but the sheer conviction behind Dixon’s words.