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From what I could recall, the man was handsome and seemed very normal. Charming, even. He hadn’t skewed creepy or slimy, although the one-two punch of unbridled emotion and multiple whiskey shooters didn’t bode well for my good judgment.
I just want to run something by you. Stop worrying—I’m not a creep and this is no big deal.
I dropped down into the deck chair, scrambling for an excuse because there was just no way. Even if he didn’t have bad news or an angle he was working, there was nothing I could gain from having coffee with him.
As if reading my mind, he texted:Stop trying to find an excuse. Just meet me at Starbucks for five minutes, as early as you want. You can bring Asha if you’re worried I’m a danger to you.
I groaned and decided to roll with it, not because I wanted to but because if I didn’t go, I’d drive myself crazy wondering what he’d wanted. Besides, it was always better to know what you were up against, right?
I took a deep breath and texted:Starbucks on 114th and Dodge—7 am.
six
Max
I didn’t recognizeher at first.
I was sitting at a table by the window, waiting for Sophie, when the blonde walked in. She was looking at her phone and wearing the standard “casual” Friday uniform for this corporate part of town; jeans (“good” jeans, not “garage cleaning” jeans), flat (designer) shoes, white T-shirt, and the requisite perfectly tailored black blazer.
It screamed,I’m not dressed up today but still willing to schedule a shit ton of meetings at the drop of a hat, and I knew at a glance that the woman used the shit out of that Apple Watch on her wrist.
Her hair was shoulder length, light and wavy with razored ends, and she wore a large pair of black glasses that managed to make her look hot and smart all at the same time, like she could calculate quadratic equations and forecast an annual budget without ever ruining her lipstick.
I picked up my cup and looked away from her, out the window. The last thing I needed was for Miss iPhone to look over and think I was checking her out. Still... my eyes went back. There was just something about the way she charged the counter without looking up from her device that made me watch, half waiting for a collision and half intrigued to see whether or not she could order and get her drink while never raising her eyes from her phone.
But when she reached the front of the line, she dropped thephone into her jacket pocket and ordered—Venti Americano with a splash of cream—with a smile in her voice.
Holy shit—her voice.
It washer.
The blonde was Sophie.
I pictured her long, dark hair and lacy wedding gown, and couldn’t quite believe it.
As if hearing my thoughts, she glanced around the coffee shop, then leveled me with eye contact.
I raised my cup and an eyebrow, which made her frown and turn back to the coffee counter.
Oh-kay.
But when she finally came over, she gave me a small smile. “So hi.”
“So hi.” My eyes ran over her face and hair. “Wow. You look, um,different.”
She quirked an eyebrow, encouraging me to expand.
“Shorter,” I corrected, which made her smile grow as she sat down in the chair across from me.
“I’ve been working hard on my height,” she said, pulling the stopper out of the lid and setting it on the table, “so this pleases me.”
“Naturally,” I muttered, and we shared a quiet smile.
I found it hard to believe thatthiswasthatbride. The night of her botched wedding, she’d been drunk and silly, hurling fucking Twinkies with mascara-rimmed eyes.
I couldn’t quite reconcile that hot mess with this measured person in front of me.
Blond Sophie looked like she subscribed to theWall Street Journal, whereas the bride had looked like she subscribed toVogue.
