“What list? The names of the ex-boyfriends you keep locked in your basement?”
Whirling around, I found Grant standing behind me, balancing our drinks on a tray like he moonlighted as a cocktail waiter. A bowl of cherries sat beside my tall glass of tequila, orange juice, and a heavy splash of grenadine.
“You said extra cherries, not leave some for everyone else.”
He handed Sage her drink, waited until I took mine, then claimed his own and ditched the tray.
“Don’t tip him,” I muttered to Sage, sliding my bowl of cherries closer to my cheese plate like I was guarding treasure.
Sage sipped her wine. “Grant, I hear congratulations are in order. If everything goes smoothly, this time next year, you’ll be Valerie’s boss.”
I almost choked on a cherry. Grant thumped me between the shoulder blades while my eyes watered. I gulped my drink just in time to hear him muse,
“Thank you. Assuming she makes the cut with the board and relocates east, I already have a contractor in mind to remodel her office. He specializes in walk-in freezers.”
Sage threw back her head and laughed. I stared at the cheese knife in my hand and wondered why they didn’t make them sharper. Missed opportunity, clearly.
“We’re supposed to be faking a friendship,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Even in front of your friend? The one you’ve probably told everything to?” Grant furrowed his brow. “Seems like extra work.”
“He has a point. Save your energy.” Sage adjusted the camera strap around her neck. “But as much as I’d love to be the third wheel on your slow-motion act of self-destruction, I have memories to capture. Steve twerking on the dance floor won’t immortalize himself.”
The three of us glanced at the platform in the center of the pavilion. I winced as a man with shaggy blond hair and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt jerked his shoulders to the beat of the steel drum band.
“Later, liars,” Sage gave a little shimmy as she sauntered toward the action, camera at the ready.
Grant bumped his shoulder into mine. “So, are we haunting the cheese stand all night, or do you want to fake it on the dance floor? You can bring your cherries.”
I fought back a grin. Grant was funnier than I remembered. Then again, it was hard to find him amusing through the red haze of a CC’d email—sent from two thousand miles away, after he bribed a West Coast conspirator—with the subject line:Status Update on Your Missing Water Bottle: Did You Check the Roof?
Yes, I checked the roof. By the time I found it, pigeons had built a nest around it. Grant Delaney owed me a new water bottle.
I eyed the dance floor and shuddered. “I’m going to need way more tequila before I attempt whatever Steve is doing out there. Maybe we should just stand next to each other andsmile.”
“Good plan.” Grant folded his arms over his chest, his suit jacket pulling tight across his broad shoulders. “Let’s not overwhelm anyone with our fated connection.”
The band played an entire set while we sipped and waved like a pair of glowing plastic reindeer on a front lawn. We got plenty of weird looks and more than a few double takes. A tipsy Joan even approached cautiously, poking Grant’s sleeve to confirm whether we were the real thing or wax figures.
I half-expected him to shout “boo” when she made contact, but he just slung an arm around my shoulder and tucked me against his side.
Honestly, that was somehow creepier. Especially since, for all his teasing about my height, my shoulder slotted perfectly under his arm, as if fate were playing a joke like,"See here, kids—this is how the height difference trope happens."
“Just checking." Joan giggled, jotting something down in her magical ledger. "I’m so pleased you two are finally coming around.”
Grant just pulled me closer. “It was only a matter of time. Who can resist a woman who unironically calendar-invites you to watch the latest reality TV show couples?”
“It's quality television,” I grumbled.
An hour later, and the soles of my feet throbbed inside my heels. My smile felt painted on, my neck tight from the effort.
“Kick off your shoes, Spells,” Grant murmured, lifting a hand in greeting to someone from across the room. “At least one of us should be comfortable.”
He tugged at his collar, then shifted as if he had ants under his jacket. He had to be roasting in that thing. The pavilion was packed, the humid air sticking to my skin like a second dress.
“You first,” I whispered. “Your jacket for my shoes.”
“Weirdest strip poker game I’ve ever played, but okay.” Grant checked the perimeter before shrugging out of his jacket. He tossed it like a hot potato behind a potted fern. His relieved exhale could have powered a sailboat.
