“Oh my god.” I grab his shoulders, personal space obliterated because of a fantastic fucking shoe. “Please tell me those are not the Louboutin loafers.”
“Um . . .” He glances down at his spike-embellished black loafers. “They are.”
I struggle not to fall to the ground to inspect them closer. “Holy shit, they are even more beautiful in person.”
“I’ve never seen a woman get so excited over men’s shoes,” he says.
I manage to tear my eyes away from his feet. “I usually don’t. But I’m strapped and locked into shoes that make me feel as if a new bone in my foot is breaking with every step I take.” I point to the deceptively beautiful metallic stilettos I’m wearing. “And I’ve been lusting over a pair of Louboutin slip-on sneakers for months, and after my car debacle, I’m pretty sure this is going to be the closest I get to them.”
“Aren’t all of your girls wearing Louboutins right now?” he asks, looking around at all the women congregated in circles throughout the space.
“Yes, but theirs are high heels, which, while gorgeous, are my archenemy. I can’t properly admire them because all I can do is think about how much they hurt, and make a mental list of all the reasons I would never wear them. I want the comfort and the extraness.”
Maxwell’s face screws up in confusion and, somehow, still manages to look ridiculously handsome. “Is ‘extraness’ a real word?”
“I mean, we both just said it, so I’m gonna go with yes.” I shrug, fighting back memories of the evil eye my English teachers always directed my way.
He shakes his head, his smile stretching across his face like he doesn’t know whether or not he wants to gift me with a dictionary or appreciate my quirks.
But before I can find out, a hand with long, thin fingers and short nails painted a predictable red that nearly matches Maxwell’s suit wraps around his Apple Watch–covered wrist.
“Maxwell,” Eloise cries like he’s her long-lost lover. “How lovely to see you again!”
Maxwell’s mouth snaps shut, and I watch as the man I was just laughing and joking with slides away and a polite, professional version of him takes over. His smile dims, shutters slam over his eyes, and his back straightens.
“Yes,” he says. Even that one word sounds stiff and forced. “Nice to see you again, as well.”
Eloise clearly came prepared for tonight, considering last night she couldn’t even close her mouth.
“Hey, Eloise.” I wave carefully so I don’t lose my balance. “Love that dress.”
I don’t, in fact, love the dress.
But mainly because she looks fucking hot in it and still has her hand on Maxwell.
Hi, Jealous, party of one. Thanks.
“Brynn!” she yells with the fake, sugary sweetness that makes my teeth ache. “This place looks fantastic!”
Suddenly, I feel like I’ve been zapped from HERS and straight into a scene from Mean Girls. I’m sure that as soon as I turn my back, Eloise is going to tell everyone that this is the ugliest fucking bar she’s ever seen.
She doesn’t even wait for me to respond before her attention—and other hand—is back on Maxwell. “So, Maxwell—” she starts, getting so close I’m afraid she might start dry humping him.
“Please,” Maxwell cuts her off, his white teeth on full display. “Call me Max.”
Her eyes sparkle at the invitation, and my eyebrows furrow together.
I think of all of my friends . . . all of his friends . . . and how I’m the only one who calls him Maxwell. He’s never, not once, asked me to call him by his nickname, and it’s such a mind fuck that I don’t even notice that Maxwell—or Max—has excused himself until Eloise has invaded my personal space.
“God, he is such a dish.” She fans herself as he disappears into the crowd. “Sorry I interrupted you guys. You two, aren’t, like, a thing, are you?”
She doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“No, not at all. We’re just friends.” Or at least I thought we were.
No.
We are.
We binge-watch a show together, he had dinner with my dad, he saved me from getting smushed on the highway. I am not going to let a stupid nickname and a woman who makes me want to get my eyebrows threaded doubt myself.
“Oh good, because I’d hate to have to step on any toes.” She winks. “But I’d still do it.”
Eww.
I think I hate her.
“Anyways, I’m off to mingle, toodles.” She smiles, showing off her too-perfect veneers and wiggling her fingers so close to my face that her fingernail grazes my nose.
Okay.
Now I know I hate her.
“What the hell was that?” Poppy, my only stone-cold-sober friend, asks.
I stare at Eloise’s shiny, highlighted hair as she makes her way to somebody I’ve never seen before. “I honestly have no fucking idea.”
“Can I help behind the bar or anything?” she asks, but hurries on when I open my mouth to tell her to enjoy the party. “Not because I think you need help. I feel so awkward being here. I left TK because I hate this sport so much and no doubt a lot of people here know that. The only reason I’m here is because I promised Vonnie I’d support her first big event. And the only reason I promised her I’d support her first big event is because I thought I’d be able to get drunk enough to forget the night in its entirety. So I really need you to let me make some cocktails since I can’t drink any.”
Poppy is rambling, and Poppy rarely rambles. She’s actually the exact opposite of me in that regard. It’s like silence is a comfort to her whereas I—and most people I know—would rather make an ass of myself than let my thoughts simmer in my brain.
“If you want to, you’re more than welcome to join me. The list of specialty cocktails and their instructions are taped behind the bar.” I wasn’t going to be behind the bar tonight, but it’s pretty clear to me that I’m going to need something to occupy my mind and my hands. Some people knit or paint to calm themselves. I make cocktails.
“Thank you.” She practically leaps into my arms.
It takes a solid twenty minutes for us to work our way through the dense crowd, Poppy greeting girlfriends and wives, me saying hello to the men and women in smart suits who wanted information on how they too could rent out the space for their next big event. When we finally slide behind the bar, both of our shoulders slouch in relief to have a barrier from the mobs of people.