“I did say that.” She’s got me there. I sip my drink, considering my next move. Because this feels like a battle of wits that requires some kind of strategy, even if I’m not sure what the winner gets in the end. And when is the end? How do we even declare a winner?
She sips her champagne, her eyes sparkling in the low light, an irrepressible smile flirting with the edges of her mouth. This is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen her, and win or lose, I’m glad we’re playing whatever game this is.
I slouch down on the couch, spreading out and settling in. This maybe isn’t quite the evening I had in mind when I suggested going out—I’d imagined being down on the main floor of a club, sitting with V at the bar, maybe dancing—but I have no complaints. And I didn’t make myself very clear when I told her to pick a club, so even though I teased her that she was responsible for this, it’s on me too.
With just the two of us alone in a room, maybe we can work on that whole “being friends” thing we said we’d do. I don’t have a great track record with female friends, and if I’m being honest, “friends” isn’t the label I’d like to use. But at this point, the cessation of hostilities is welcome. Keeping up the angry, needling facade is exhausting. And it’s been a relief to let it go.
Still, she’s a stranger for the most part. “Tell me about yourself.”
She startles, coughing, and when she finally regains control of herself, her eyes are watering.
I give her a quizzical smile. “You alright there? I didn’t expect a request to get to know you to almost kill you.”
Waving a hand in front of her face, she nods. “Fine. Fine.” Her voice comes out hoarse, and she places her hand on her chest as she clears her throat and coughs a few more times into her elbow. “Fine. Sorry. You just caught me off guard.”
“Clearly.” I shift so I can face her better. “I apologize for the shock. I can see how after months of working together, me making an effort to learn more about you now might be something of a surprise.” Because I’ve been an asshole for most of that time. “We had a rough start.” She snorts at the understatement, and I grin. “But you said you wanted to be friends, right?” I wait for her nod. “So …” I wave a hand in her direction. “Friends talk. Your turn first.”
She takes another cautious sip of her champagne, eyeing me warily over the glass. “What do you want to know?”
“What did you do before this?” That seems like a safe place to start.
She cocks her head, her brows wrinkled, another smile flirting with her lips. God, those lips. I have to tear my gaze away or else I’ll lose myself in fantasies of where I want those lips.
Draining the rest of my drink, I sit forward and reach for the bottle of tequila sitting on the low table. It’s high quality sipping tequila, and I just knocked it back like water. But I’m going to need to fortify myself if I’m going to be alone with those lips all damn night.
Her voice floats around me like a caress. “You weren’t paying even the tiniest bit of attention during my interview, were you?”
I pause mid-pour, realizing she must’ve talked about her last job, her reasons for wanting to join us, all that superficial shit in the interview. Of course she did. I pour another inch of liquor into my glass and replace the cap on the bottle before sitting back and facing her again. “No,” I finally answer her. “I really wasn’t.”
I was too wrapped up in my own head, too busy being pissed off that we were interviewing a replacement for Blaire, as though Blaire could just swap in her cousin and none of us would notice the difference.
Of course that’s not what Blaire was trying to do. She’d moved on, landed a better job—because tour manager is definitely a promotion from PA—and fallen in love on top of that. When she said she was going temporarily, I’d believed her. Apparently I’d been the only one.
No one was surprised when she said she was going back to him. The only surprise was that she’d come back to us at all. At least according to literally everyone else.
And when we were interviewing Viola, I didn’t care. I didn’t want a Blaire replacement, so it didn’t matter to me who we hired. No one could measure up.
Swallowing another mouthful of tequila, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, V. I’ve been the worst kind of asshole to you from day one, and none of it was about you. I’m listening now. Tell me all the things that everyone else already knows. I’ve got some catching up to do.” I notice her champagne glass is empty. “And you have some catching up to do, too.”
“What does that mean?”
Instead of answering her, I grab another glass and pour three fingers of tequila into it. “You’re never going to get drunk enough to tell me all your secrets from champagne. Drink this so we’re even.”
She takes the glass from me, her fingers brushing mine, her eyeballs bouncing between me and the glass dubiously. “Does that mean you’re going to get drunk enough to tell me all your secrets too?”
That prompts a laugh from me that comes out much lower and more wicked than it should, all things considered. “Only if you ask nicely.”
Her answering chuckle has a nervous quality to it. She takes a delicate sip of the tequila, making a face as she swallows. Leaning forward, she sets the glass on the table, giving me a front row view of her cleavage as her top gaps. “How about this,” she says as she picks up the champagne bottle and refills her flute, completely oblivious
