“Well, I’ve got to go,” I say.
“Plans tonight?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Going out with friends.”
“Oh, right, it’s Monday,” Henry says, and I’m taken aback that he even remembered that little tidbit about me.
Do not race off, brain of mine. Do not.
“Well . . . thank you,” he says. “For helping me tonight.”
I lift my shoulders briefly. “It’s my job.”
“Well, thank you for doing . . . your job.”
“You’re welcome, boss,” I add, and then give him a closed-mouth smile. There’s so much underlying meaning for me in that one word . . . boss.
With a little wave of my hand, I turn and walk away.
~*~
“Tell us what’s happening with Henry,” Holly says, sitting across from me at our normal table. She reaches up and tugs on a piece of her red hair, wrapping her finger around it. In the other hand is a glass of red wine. She’s Logan-less this evening.
Hester’s is happening tonight; the bar is full, and the sounds of conversations and laughter along with the clanking of glassware fill the space.
“Snooze,” Thomas says, his eyes moving to the ceiling.
“Shut up, Thomas,” Bree says, martini glass in hand.
“Nothing to tell,” I say, slumping back in my chair. “We started the feature tonight.”
“I thought so,” Holly says. “I heard a couple of women talking about it at the bar when I first got here.”
I slump even farther. “Word is spreading fast. I should have known.”
“I pulled up a picture of him today on the station’s website, and I mean,” Thomas pulls his shoulders inward, “he’s not that good looking.”
“Oh please,” I say as both Bree and Holly make scoffing noises.
“Yeah, I don’t see it either,” Alex says.
“Right?” Thomas reaches his fist across the table and bumps it with Alex’s.
“I mean, what’s there to see? Dark hair, blue eyes? Our own Alex has got that,” Thomas says, gesturing with his hand toward Alex.
“Exactly,” Alex says, pounding his fist on his chest twice.
Bree shakes her head. “You wish,” she says to Alex, and his face breaks out in an overly pained expression.
“You hurt me,” he says dramatically.
“It’s what friends do,” she says, smugly. At the word “friend,” real hurt crosses his face. Only for a second, but I catch it. Poor Alex.
“And what about that other poor sap you’re stringing along?” says Thomas.
“Oh yeah, what about Brady?” Holly asks.
Thomas snaps his fingers. “That’s right. Boring Brady. How could I forget?”
“Shhhhh,” I say, looking around to make sure no one heard. I’ve rarely run into anyone from work at Hester’s on a Monday night, but it’s always a possibility.
“They went on a date,” Holly says, leaning in toward the table, her voice half whisper, but anyone in a ten-foot radius would still be able to hear.
“Oooooh,” Bree says, her tone teasing.
“It was . . . nice,” I say.
“Ughs” and “ohs” and “oh nos” go around the table.
“Yeah. I need to tell him that nothing is going to happen, don’t I,” I say, not in the form of a question. I know I need to do it—I just don’t want to. I’ve never had to tell someone things weren’t working before. It’s always been the other person’s job. Or things mutually fizzled out.
“Give me your phone,” Thomas says. “I’ll tell him.”
“Oh no. No, thank you.” I wave his offer away with my hand. “Anyway, I feel bad. I mean, I sort of owe the guy. He got my rap taken down off YouTube.”
“What?” Holly says, disappointment in her voice, which she quickly tries to cover with a cough before saying, “I mean, how?”
I purse my lips together at her. “He found out the music was copyrighted.”
“Well, that’s good,” Holly says, her weak smile conveying her true feelings. Sometimes my friends are the worst.
“Never fear,” Thomas says, “I have a copy.” He holds his phone out as strong bass notes start playing.
“Thomas,” I say, hitting him on the arm with the back of my hand. “What the heck?”
“Hell. The word is ‘hell.’ You sound like someone who raises barns. And don’t worry your scrunchy little mug,” he says, pointing to the current face I’m giving him. “I’m not going to share.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling relief run through me.
“Except with everyone at this table,” he says with a wink.
Chapter 15
“Lunch today?” Brady asks from behind me.
I’m sitting at my desk reading my emails. There was nothing from Grace Is Amazing today, and I even checked my junk mail. So strange. I’ve come to expect her nasty emails. I’m almost disappointed. My mind runs off with many ideas. Maybe she’s hurt? Maybe she’s sick? Maybe she’s stuck under a bus? Or her cats have taken over the house and she’s a prisoner in her own home?
I suppose I shouldn’t give it a thought since there was a slew of lovely ones from other people, including one that said, “You’re too fat for the news,” and another one that told me I pronounced “Saint Louis” wrong. Apparently, according to this viewer, the correct pronunciation is “Saint Louie.” You learn something every day.
I turn my chair to look at Brady. He’s got on black jeans and a red polo. His hands are tucked into his pockets.
“Lunch? Uh . . . sure. Where should we go?”
“We’ll hang here, if that’s okay? I’ll get something, and we can eat in the audio booth.”
Right. The audio booth. Where we’ve made out. This lunch plan of his has many implications. All of which I’ll have to snuff out when I tell him that we need to just be friends. And I will today at lunch. It’s just been decided.
“Sounds good,” I say.
He gives me a nod and walks back to the audio booth. The door blows cool air in my direction when it closes, which feels nice since I just came from outside, where it was nearly a billion degrees.
“Do you want to know how many entrants the British hottie has gotten so far?” Jerry says as he approaches my desk.
“Not really,” I say, going back to my computer and clicking on my script for today. I probably should read over it so I don’t stutter so much or I’ll definitely hear from Grace Is Amazing.
“Nearly eight hundred,” Jerry says, not caring what my answer is.
I let out a breath. “Well, good for him. And for the station.”
It’s not good for me, however, and I hate all eight hundred of those people who applied.
“I mean, this is going to be better than we thought,” Jerry says, his eyes bright, a piece of his comb-over dancing around his head as he talks.
“I’m so thrilled,” I deadpan.
“Hey—this is good for you, since it was your idea,” he says, pointing at me. “You could show a little more happiness.”