“I’ll meet you at the hotel. I need to change.”
“Interesting,” he said, grinning audibly. “I want the full debrief.”
“You’re the one talking. See you soon.”
I washed the cup, gave Queequeg a final head scratch, and stood in the doorway for a moment. Just one last glance.
Then I stepped into the cold.
When I got to the hotel, Otis was sprawled across the bed in an oversized bathrobe, mimosa in hand.
“You look awful,” he said with too much cheer.
“And you look suspiciously happy.” I kicked off my boots and flopped onto the bed beside him. “What base are we talking?”
Otis leaned back on one elbow and sipped his mimosa. The citrus and alcohol combo hit my nose and made my stomach tilt.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” he said, practically glowing.
“I see no gentleman,” I muttered.
“You’re right.” He flicked his wrist like a magician about to reveal his next trick. “So, I took Jeremy for a drink…”
He launched into a play-by-play of their night: how he’d tried to impress Jeremy with a string of overpriced cocktail bars, only for them to end up at a tiny Italian place sipping five-dollar house wine and holding hands under the table like they were in a 90s rom-com. I hadn’t seen Otis beam this bright since he found a signed Barbra Streisand LP in a thrift store.
“And then…we kissed. Just once.” He took another sip, smacking his lips in delight. “It was dreamy. It was perfect. I want to marry him.”
I sat up. “You? Wanting to marry a guy you just met?” I nudged him with my foot. “Must be a Thursday.”
He clutched his chest in mock-offense. “I’m serious, Nora. He isthe one.”
Warning bells rang. Loud ones. I didn’t want Otis getting hurt. I didn’t wantJeremygetting hurt. It already felt weird that one of my closest friends was dating someone I was supposed to be competing against. But I swallowed my skepticism.
“I’m happy for you,” I said instead.
“Good, because I’m happy for me too.” His tone softened. “We’re hanging out again tonight. Hope that’s okay?” he asked—not that it was really a question.
I bit back a sigh. Our last night in Chicago, and I’d been planning on hiding from the group. Maybe calling in sick to Charlene with a fake case of malaria, skipping the team meeting, and eating room service in bed while trying to reboot my entire emotional operating system. But Otis was practically vibrating with joy.
“Of course,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to miss a chance to look up property prices and name your five future kids.”
“Three kids,” he corrected smoothly, “and I wouldneverleave you.”
“Not even for Prince Charming?”
“It’s tempting,” he admitted, “but no. You’re the Willow to my Buffy.”
By the time we headed out for the group dinner, my skin felt like it was crawling. The kind of slow, itchy anxiety that made it hard to sit still.
John was late.
The rest of the group—May, Jeremy, Charlene, and Otis—were all deep in animated conversation, sampling the entirecocktail menu one by one. The hotel lounge we’d met at was all velvet sofas and low lighting, soft jazz spilling through the speakers.
I twirled the paper umbrella in my drink and tried, really tried, to focus. But my thoughts kept circling back.
To John’s hand on my thigh.
To the sting of the cat scratch, still faintly burning.
