“Trying to get a head start on hide and seek?” a waiter asked, sliding a fresh flute of champagne onto the ledge beside me. His nametag read “Gianni,” and he looked barely old enough to be legal, but he had that effortless, SoMa-barista charisma that made me instinctively distrust him as a romantic partner, but not dislike him as a person.
“Strategizing my emergency exit.” I pulled the glass closer to me, tipped it towards him in cheers but didn’t take a drink.
He leaned in, towel folded with military precision over his forearm. “A pretty thing like you can’t hide here all night.”
“You’d be amazed,” I deadpanned.
But then Gianni’s voice dropped, conspiratorial. “Are you sure? Drunk guy. Pinstripe suit. Incoming.”
I whipped around. Sure enough, a man had me in his sights and was headed my direction. I blinked and in the time it took for my eyelids to shut and open again, my brain recognized him. It wasRonan,one of the shortlisted names I’d given the cops who’d I’d suspected might be responsible for the notes. He was approaching, double fisting champagne with predatory intent.
He was precisely the kind of man who believed ego equaled charm, and my brief, disastrous date with him had involved being invited to “see his yacht” (which, spoiler: was a heavily water-stained tandem kayak wedged in the back of his Prius), and a failed pre-cheese plate kiss. He’d spent the second half of the evening making borderline lewd jokes and staring at my tits.
Once he made it to his target, me, there was no flicker of recognition as he leaned down and whispered with breath that would set the place on fire if a match was lit, “Hey, beautiful, you wanna play carnival, you can sit on my face, and I’ll guess how much you weigh.”
“No, thanks, Ronan. I’ll pass.”
As soon as I said his name, his entire demeanor changed.
“I’m not…no…” Ronan stumbled back, staring at me like I’d verbally slapped him. “You have the wrong guy.”
He swayed forward and I pushed his chest, guiding him in a different direction and he walked away from me.
Gianni, who witnessed the strange interaction, winked. “I’m here all night if you need me.”
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I told him sincerely.
Gianni disappeared into the throng, and I wondered what the fuck Ronan was doing at this event and why he’d been so strange. How had he gotten an invite? Who did he know?
I scanned the guests looking for clues, but not exactly sure what those might be. The venue was one of those “industrialchic” warehouse spaces perched on the edge of the marina, all exposed ductwork and Edison bulbs. The air buzzed with the sound of new money and old rivalry, everywhere you looked, someone was either schmoozing, being schmoozed, or plotting a hostile takeover of the passed appetizer trays. Out on the outdoor deck, people clustered along the railing to take selfies with the Bay Bridge glowing in the distance, but I hung back in the shadows, now with a new mission, find out why Ronan the Creep was here.
When Bailey joined me in my corner ten minutes later, I saw the judgmental look on her face and I knew what she was thinking before she opened her mouth:I found you exactly where you are during most weddings we work, perpendicular to the action, hovering near an emergency exit, and looking mildly pained.
“There you are,” she said, accusatorially. “I knew I’d find you hiding.”
Yep, nailed it.
“We’ve talked about this. I’mobserving.”
She eyed my untouched champagne. “You’re observing the carbonation.”
“Do you remember the guy that I told you about with the yacht?—”
“You mean the kayak?” Her forehead creased.
“Yes.”
Her face scrunched. “Cheese plate?”
“Yep.” I nodded.
“Lady lumps looky-loo?”
“Lady lumps looky-loo?” I repeated.
“That’s what you said,” she defended herself.
“I told you he stared at my tits.”
