Me.
The woman who got so nervous during her college presentation on molecular gastronomy that she projectile-vomited on the front row.
"You're freaking,” Margot says, pulling on my elbow. "I can see it on your face."
"I am not.”
“I can see the wheels turning in your head. You’re literally composing a recipe right now. What is it this time?"
I sigh. "Honey-glazed salmon with a tequila reduction."
"Jesus, Harper."
"It would be good!"
"You need to stop anxiety-cooking in your head and start enjoying your sister's bachelorette party." She squeezes my shoulder. "The StreamEats thing is going to be amazing. You're going to be amazing. Now drink your overpriced cocktail and pretend to have fun."
"I am having fun."
"You're thinking about the guy from the plane, aren't you?"
"What? No. Why would you?—"
"You keep getting this look. Like you're trying to remember something important." She tilts her head. "What was his name again?"
"Vic," I say before I can stop myself. "And I'm not thinking about him. I'm thinking about work. And salmon. And how Amelia's fiancé Declan is going to handle her when she's this drunk."
"Declan is a saint. He'll be fine." Margot grins. "But nice try deflecting. Tell me more about Plane Guy."
"There's nothing to tell. We talked. He was nice. And kinda mean at the same time. We said goodbye. End of story."
"Was he hot?"
"Margot—"
"On a scale of one to ten, how hot was he?"
I take a long sip of my cocktail. "Fifteen."
"Fifteen?!”
"Maybe twenty. I don't know. He had this whole serious face business mogul thing going on. Very intense. Very—It doesn't matter. I didn't get his number. He didn't get mine. Ships passing in the night."
"Ships that shared first-class seats and eye-fucked each other.”
"Ships that are never going to see each other again in a city of two million people."
Before Margot can respond, Amelia stumbles over, phone in hand, eyes wide with excitement.
"GUYS. GUYS. I found the PERFECT club!"
"We're already at a club," I point out.
"No, a BETTER club. Look!" She shoves her phone in my face.
I squint at the screen—an Instagram post from some Vegas party planning company. It's advertising something called "The Ultimate Bachelorette Scavenger Hunt."
"A scavenger hunt?" Margot asks, reading over my shoulder.
