“Thank you.” I look around for the millionth time, taking everything in. “I did do a pretty good job, didn’t I?”
“Fucking killed it!” She hands me a shot that I should not, but do, take.
I cringe as the familiar burn warms my chest. “Tequila?”
“The only shot I’ll make. If you want something fancy, join everyone else.” She points at the long line building in front of Paisley before leaning across the bar and crooking her finger. “Hey! Before I forget to ask, how was Vonnie when she was driving you home? Something has been off with her lately. She thinks she’s good at covering it up, but she’s not and I’m getting worried.”
“She seemed okay? Even though . . .” I think about the tears I saw her shed before the game. I don’t know if I should tell Brynn or not. It seemed like a deeply personal moment for her and I’m not sure if it’s my place to say anything. Even to a well-meaning friend. “She did seem a little upset before the game.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “I noticed that too. Just do me a favor and keep an eye on her if you’re around her again.”
I doubt that will happen as yesterday was a one-time thing, but I agree anyways. “Yeah, of course.”
“Now that that’s out of the way”—she points a finger across the room—“who’s that with Q? She must be coming out of pocket a lot for that level of attention.”
I follow her line of sight and see that Quinton is now sitting beside Mrs. Rafter, throwing his head back in laughter at something she said. Probably the story about the time I stole her bra and tried to wear it to the playground or some other mortifying childhood tale.
“Oh no,” I tell her. “That’s just Mrs. Rafter.”
Instead of her curiosity diminishing like I assumed it would knowing that Mrs. Rafter isn’t some eccentric millionaire with a hoard of cats, she somehow looks more curious.
She plops both elbows on the bar top. “Who’s Mrs. Rafter?”
I start to think Brynn might possess some secret, superhero-level ability to sniff out gossip.
“She’s my neighbor,” I say before realizing that she isn’t my neighbor anymore. “Was—she was my neighbor before I moved,” I correct myself and still, with every word out of my mouth, Brynn’s interest seems to grow and grow some more.
“How random,” she says in a way that says she doesn’t think it’s actually random at all. “How does he know your ex-neighbor?”
“Umm . . .” How the eff am I supposed to navigate this landmine? “We ran into her while we were having a business lunch.”
I scoot to the side when someone comes behind me and try not to snort-laugh at the face Brynn makes when they order a vodka tonic.
She squeezes lime wedges into the cocktail and slides it over to them with a grimace on her face that I think is supposed to be a smile before turning her attention back on me.
“Okay, so where were we? Oh! That’s right! We were talking about Q inviting your ex-neighbor to an event that’s costing more per head than some of the nicest weddings I’ve been to.” She rests her chin in her palms, smugness dripping off her like the condensation of the cocktails she’s been serving. “But I thought you hate each other.”
“Listen, you don’t even want to know all of the details behind him asking her, but let’s just say I wasn’t happy and he has since apologized.”
“Oh, you are so wrong about that. I always want details.” She stands up straight and looks over my shoulder. “And if you didn’t have an incoming visitor, I’d want them now. But I can be patient . . . well, patient-ish.”
I brace and turn around, thinking Donny has come back to torture me again, but instead I’m met with the skeptical smile of Mr. Mahler and the swirling smoke of his wife’s cigarette in a long cigarette holder.
And as that sick feeling I had walking to Mr. Mahler’s office five weeks ago returns, I realize that I would much rather talk to Donny.
I guess there really is a first for everything.
Fifteen
“There you are!” Mr. Mahler’s cigar-rasped voice calls out over the music.
“Mr. Mahler.” I paste on my prettiest smile and extend my hand as he gets closer. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight.”
Even under the dim lighting, Mr. Mahler’s unnaturally tan skin stands out . . . as does the bright white of his teeth. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
That’s nice to know now, after he ignored the email I sent him about the event and the formal invite I hand delivered to Gemma for him.
His wife, unimpressed by our conversation, comes to stand right beside me. “Brynn, darling!” She takes a deep drag from her cigarette holder and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth . . . and directly into my face. What a peach. “You remember my drink, don’t you?”
“Like I could ever forget.” Brynn grabs a martini glass. “The dirtiest martini for the dirtiest woman!”
My eyes widen a fraction and my heart stops until I hear Mrs. Mahler’s gravelly laughter.
“That’s why you’ll always be my favorite,” she says.
And now it’s no wonder Brynn wasn’t disappointed Mrs. Rafter wasn’t an eccentric millionaire; she has an eccentric billionaire of her very own.
Now that I know Brynn isn’t going to cost me my job by insulting my boss’s boss’s wife, I focus my attention back on Mr. Mahler, who is busy shaking hands.
“Elliot!” he calls me over. “I’d like you to meet one of my business partners, Charles Carlin. Charles, this is Elliot Reed. She’s the one who’s planned this event we’re putting on.”
If the shock of him acting like he’s had any part of Quinton’s launch shows on my face, neither of the men in front of me acknowledge it.
“A
