My mobile chimes and I realize that all my overthinking and reminiscing has in fact made me late to pick up Em from her place in Shoreditch.
Fuck!
I grab the black Valentino Rockstud purse my parents gave me for my birthday last year—I’ve never been one to own designer, but I’ve got to say, it’s fucking nice—and then I snatch up my hot-pink combat boots and hastily jam my feet into them. My fishnets get caught, almost tearing in the process, but thankfully we escape unscathed.
I don’t have time to do a double take in the mirror, just hoping my shoulder-length bleach-blonde hair isn’t sticking up in all different directions.
I spot the vintage Mercedes keys sitting on the side table, and my insides dance at the thought of driving this beauty. My parents have been living in France for the past three years, so they don’t exactly have a lot of use for the old car. I could possibly risk certain death if they find out I’ve driven it to collect Stana, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.
I pull open the door to my flat and walk through the old building’s hallway, a slight smell of damp clinging to the air, yet as soon as the main door is opened, all is washed away. The dimly lit streets of Notting Hill greet me, the scent of brisk night air invading my nose.
My shoes ring out with each step on the paved sidewalk, tall black streetlamps illuminating my way and the grand white Victorian terraces surrounding me. All of it reminds me how much I’ve missed West London. I take a moment to myself, breathing in the familiarity and accepting the small moment of serenity before moving on. It’s time to bring Stana home.
I’m going to get our girl.
After a quick trip to the airport, Em and I force a confused Stana into Saint Street, the bar her boyfriend owns. To say the two of them need some alone time would be an understatement, and I know Stana—she wouldn’t have shown up without a push from Em and me. So that’s how I’ve ended up at the underground bar, music playing as happy patrons share drinks and laughter.
“I gotta say, we make a great team.” I grin at Em, thankful that our plan worked. After Stana’s abrupt exit from London last month, things between her and her boyfriend, Ali, were a bit up in the air. But from the look of the two of them slipping out of Saint Street, it is clear we’ve done a pretty good job.
I sip my mineral water, my poor stomach still upset from last night’s dinner. As much as I’d love to down a pint and call it a night, I just can’t. My back is sore as I lean into the wooden chair, wishing we’d secured one of the red velvet booths in the corner. Those have always been my favorite.
The décor at this place is one of the main factors that drew me to it years ago. Velvet booths line the walls with brown wooden tables in front, while small tables and chairs surround a stage the lads play at most Wednesday nights. But my absolute favorite thing has to be the bar. It’s big, it’s shiny, and it’s gold. Mirrored glass and top-shelf liquor. It’s like being transported back in time.
“We should be professional matchmakers,” she replies, cutting into my thoughts as her eyes scan the crowd and stop at the exit. I look up, then smile as Ali and Stana slip out together.
“Have you seen Reeve tonight?” I ask Emilia, giving the room a once-over to see if I can spot him.
“Seen him, yes. Spoken to him, that is a big fat no. I just need time; I’ll get over it. I mean, I’m not the first girl to be told a guy isn’t interested in them. I’ll live.” Em looks away from me, her body language indifferent, but I don’t think she knows her acting skills aren’t exactly award winning. Anyone with a brain can see she’s waiting on a guy who might never come around. My heart breaks for her because even though I haven’t known her long, it doesn’t take much to see how great she is.
Not wanting her to feel bad, I nod, pretending I buy her story. Lord knows I don’t want to get into the nitty-gritty of my own failed relationships, so why should I push her into it?
“Ladies, what did you think of the show?”
Em turns around, flashing her teeth at the sound of the voice. I recognize him instantly, as I’ve seen him on Em’s Instagram from time to time. Big, tall, blond, he’s basically an Adonis. And he is so off limits for me. Don’t shit where you eat and all that jazz.
“Great as always, Owen,” Em replies before he looks my way. His gaze is penetrating, as if he’s opening me up in one sitting. So, of course, I shut that shit down.
“You seem great, but I’m not interested,” I quickly tell him, knowing I might be in for a rude comment or two before he fucks off. But lo and behold, he does something I didn’t expect.
He laughs.
“Quick and to the point, I like that. How about friendship? Interested in that?” His lips tilt upward, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and damn me to hell if it doesn’t make me crack a smile. Gotta give the man credit.
“One can never have too many friends,” he insists, raising those dark blond eyebrows.
I rake my gaze over him. “Sure, Owen. We can be friends.”
His grin only gets bigger, flashing those pearly whites at me. I’m sure it woos all
