“So?” He prompts.
“So…what? Everything alright?”
“Did I just see you talking to Reed Hutton?”
The inquiry stops me from sipping my drink. “I’m sorry, who?”
“Reed Hutton?” He presses. “You don’t know who Reed Hutton is?”
“Should I?”
“Sure. I thought most people knew who he was by now. He’s only one of the richest men in Hollywood. A major TV producer who lit up headlines these last two years after trying to sabotage one of his upcoming stars.”
“Um, I’m sorry,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “Did you say, sabotaging one of his stars?”
“Yeah.” Eric smirks, too pleased with himself. He follows my gaze. “He got mixed in with some unsavory characters—big-wig investor guys. Started scamming and scheming his TV stars for leverage after that.”
I gulp, taking down too much martini with it. I groan out loud. “Oh God. And he’s here? We actually let this guy through the doors?”
“I’m familiar with him. Every time I see the guy, he’s asking about the bar. About buying it. For what, I have no idea, but yes, you were just talking to him. Jesus,” he swears, blinking fast. “I thought he was back in court-ordered rehab after everything went down. Guess not.”
“Dammit. I know exactly who you’re talking about now. Older guy with hair plugs? Skin the color of a tangerine?”
He points. “That’s the one. Guy’s the most notorious producer in Tinseltown. Don’t know why he wants to break into the restauranteur business. He’s been in more drug facilities than he’s been on television sets, so I hear.”
“Crap. All these suits are starting to look alike. I only asked him if he was enjoying himself. He looked at me like I had lice.”
My date winces. “Well, to be quite honest: The man is known for his business deals. He’s not exactly known for his charm.”
“Assuming he has any. He tried to hand me his drink, as if I were a server and not the woman who sprung for the shrimp cocktail he was shoving down his orange throat.”
Dammit. It was time to put the martinis down.
More and more, I was sounding like Sophia—a reason I try not to drink before events. I start becoming too honest.
Teetering on the edge of tipsy, I attempt to pass my drink over to Eric, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too engrossed in watching our guests.
He sidles up close.
“The turnout is great. Half of Manhattan is here. We make a great team, don’t we?”
I want to say yes. But there goes that honesty again, Sophia’s voice popping out of my mouth against my better judgement.
I take another taste of my martini. “Yeah. Team. We make a great one. So great in fact that we invited The Who’s Who of Assholes to our fundraiser for foster kids. Yay us.”
Eric frowns. “You know, you could afford to be a little happier tonight.”
I take a deep breath, letting it out. Slowly.
Is he right? No, he is. Honestly.
But with the way tonight is going, I can’t afford happiness right now.
The bar’s in jeopardy—something I’ve still kept between me and Sophia. And with me fantasizing about one of my own employees, it wasn’t a stretch to feel like the world’s worst boss.
Sashaying around in the little black dress I could barely afford doesn’t have me any closer to saving the bar.
Or, for that matter, this date.
Grinning up at the poor schmuck who made the mistake of joining me tonight, I force my lips into a half-smile, willing my emotions to follow.
I set down my drink.
“I’m sorry. I’m…not feeling like myself tonight. Maybe I’ve had one too many sips of my martini. Please don’t pay attention to me. Pretend I’m invisible. Most people in here are.”
“I can’t.” The sweet looking manager slides in closer. “Not when you’re looking so good in this outfit.”
This time the grin I give is real, a warm buzz working its way into my system.
It might be the alcohol. But that will do.
I mean, it’s the first compliment he’s given me all night, and I soak it in, much like the martini’s alcohol.
An hour is all I’ve got, so I decide to make the most of it.
He’s a nice guy—this Eric. From good stock.
A former Wall Street broker who’d gotten chummy with my older brother Deacon over the past few months, I was sure the shiny white knight wearing Armani had only asked me on this first “real” date because we’d worked well together.
But his touch tonight tells me otherwise.
His hands on my waist, mouth on my ear, he gives me a final kiss on the cheek before disappearing into the fundraiser crowd I’ve been avoiding, the ex-broker blending back in with people richer than God.
The only thing in this room I’m blending in with is this martini.
But at least, the night is finally looking up.
Contrary to the suggestions I didn’t want to take from Sophia or construction guy Michael Bassett, finding an investor might not be impossible for the bar if I can just keep up this mood. And I decide I’m going to do just that, swaying my hips and strawberry blonde hair to the sounds of a Manhattan soft Sinatra number when an arm bumps me at the bar.
I turn around…only to find the world’s worst employee sidled up behind me.
I could pick his amber wood scent out of a lineup, it’s so ingrained in my half-drunken brain.
Dark strands of messy hair fall over a furrowed forehead as my soon-to-be ex-employee motions to another bartender, ignoring me completely, and I cross my arms, making it hard for him, my voice sharp as I face him head-on.
“You know, last time I checked, there are two words you use when you knock into someone accidentally.”
Andrew raises a brow, pondering. “Oh yeah? Do those two words start with screw and end with you?”
“No, actually. Pretty sure they start with, you are and ends with so fired.”
“Now, see, those were four words, Nancy. Not two.”
I tilt my head. “Sorry. I have this condition where I stutter when I’m talking to
