We all buried our faces in those wings or beer bottles, trying to hold back the laughs. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact.
My eyes connected with August. Tears swam in his eyes and he choked back his laugh. That broke the dam, and we were rewarded with a spray of beer from Hunter, who’d tried and failed to drink his way past laughter.
The forks and knife jangled as Hunter pounded his hand on the table.
Jameson slammed Hunter on the back. “It’s what you all get for stressing me out on my night out.”
Hunter coughed into his napkin. “If this is the best evening entertainment you’re getting, we need to find you a date. I’ve never been able to pin down your type.”
Jameson dragged his fingers through his hair. “It wasn’t an invitation to matchmake.”
“Who said anything about matchmaking? I’m talking straight up.” He grabbed an onion ring and slipped his finger inside, knowing all Jameson’s buttons.
Jameson slapped the onion ring out of his hand, sending it flying into Everest’s lap. “Stop it.”
“These are cashmere.” Everest jumped up, knocking the greasy onion ring from his lap—and sending a full bottle of beer onto its side. It spun, facing his legs. He froze, staring straight ahead. The pitter-patter of ice cold beer splattering all over the floor, his pants, and shoes, warmed my cold heart.
Keeping his laughter-filled mouth hidden behind his fist, August righted the bottle and handed Everest a stack of napkins, which he snatched and dabbed at his pants.
Jameson and Hunter were fascinated by something happening behind the booth. I sat grinning from ear to ear, taking another bite of my food. I leveled a chicken wing at Everest. “They make cashmere sweatpants?”
Everyone lost it. The whole place was looking at us now, trying to figure out who’d died as we all doubled over gasping for precious breath. Even Everest cracked a smile.
More wings and drinks arrived before the happy hour special ended. A kid, (I’d need to check with Harold, the bar owner, to see if he was indeed an actual child), got onto the stage with a similarly-aged girl in a bright orange shirt who was moving around the cables and cords.
“Have you heard this guy before?” Hunter asked over his shoulder, already turned towards the stage, wings forgotten.
“No, is he any good?”
“He’s phenomenal. I might have put in a word for him with some people I know.”
Hunter, always the string puller and connection maker.
The girl in orange hopped down and stood at the side of the stage with another guitar at the ready.
The guitarist would’ve fit in with the D&D mob we’d played with for a few years in middle school. He wore an Avengers t-shirt, cargo shorts, Converse sneakers and an uncertain look that disappeared the second he opened his mouth.
A shiver ran down my spine at the first note. Everyone at the table looked at one another. Was this insanely talented kid for real? Now that he’d opened his mouth, he sounded at least eighteen.
All conversation stopped. Some people were watching mid-bite. Nacho cheese slid off tortilla chips all over the place until he sang the last bar.
“He won’t be playing here much longer.” Jameson shoved two fingers into his mouth to whistle in the way that had made me jealous since middle school.
Someone on the way up. The world was his oyster and anyone could see his talent would take him far.
After four more songs, the young singer spoke to the crowd. “I want to dedicate this set to my best friend, Riley. She convinced me to ask Harold if I could perform and she always has my back.” He peered at her, still standing on the side the stage.
She gave him two thumbs up, grinning from ear to ear.
“Aww, puppy love.” Hunter laughed, clapping before cupping his hands around his mouth and joining the calls for an encore.
We paid our tab and left the bar before Harold could kick us out.
“Same time next week?” Hunter looked up from his phone.
My empty apartment called my name. That had been a shit ton more excitement than I’d had in months. “Penciling us in?”
He shrugged. “Everyone knows I’m a busy man.”
“Same time every week.”
I got back to my apartment and dragged out my laptop. Cracking my knuckles, I fired up my web browser, typing in ‘event planning’. How much could there be to this?
Tomorrow, I’d lay out all the ideas and drag Zara along if I had to, because I wasn’t losing this job, especially not to a ball busting, barely ginger with killer legs.
Scratch that last part.
I wasn’t going down without a fight.
Zara Logan had met her match.
8
Zara
We met outside on the steps to the Winthorpe’s flagship hotel. The gravel driveway led to the grand entrance with stone and marble steps and doormen in tails.
Unable to endure the stone digging itself into my arch a moment longer, I set down the portfolio and kicked off my shoe, emptying it. He’d wanted to bring the presentation, but I’d told him to leave it to me. I’d switched out the boards and put them into the still-pristine portfolio I’d never used for a client presentation before.
“Where are the boards?” Leo hissed and stared into the half-unzipped portfolio.
How hard was it to see inside a bag? Did I have to do everything, including see for him? “They’re right—” Blood drained from my face. The new car smell from the never-used portfolio was even stronger, since it was totally empty. I lifted it and turned it over, shaking it.
My lips were numb and the entryway to the hotel blurred. “I grabbed the wrong portfolio.”
It was the showing-up-to-class-and-there’s-a-pop-quiz-I-didn’t-study-for nightmare, only it was real and happening to me right now. In my stupid rush this morning, I must have left them sitting on the floor where I’d pored over them last night in my bathroom, which was the only room with a functioning light bulb where I had floor space to work.
“Go get them. I’ll stall.” He glared at me and rushed to the top of the steps of the hotel.
I’d never screwed up like this on a project before. I wanted to crawl into the empty portfolio and die.
“Zara.” Leo shook me, staring into my eyes. “Can you handle this? Get the boards and get your ass back here.”
I nodded dumbly.
His arm shot up and a taxi pulled forward. He shoved a couple twenties into the driver’s hand through the open window, and pushed me into the back of the taxi and we hauled ass to my place.
Sweat poured down my back as I jabbed the elevator button five times in a row. Of all the days to forget my stupid tablet, this had to be the day. I could see Leo’s condescendingly smug face looking down at me when I got to the meeting with minutes to spare.
Squeezing through the barely opened doors, I yanked my bag free and sprinted to my door. The telltale squeak of the door opposite mine almost had me flinging myself into my apartment, but it was too late.
“Zara,” Stella squealed.
“Hi. I’m insanely late. I’ve got a big meeting.” I blew a strand of hair out of my face, doing the dance of impatience, but trying not to snap at her. It wasn’t her fault she had bat ears and the excitement level of a six-week-old Yorkshire Terrier.