"That's insane. You know what I could do with two thousand dollars?"
"Enlighten me."
"Pay my student loans for a month. Buy a decent used car. Fund my entire wardrobe for a year." She pauses. "Okay, that last one's an exaggeration. But still. A shirt."
"Would it help if I told you I have twelve of them?"
"Oh my God." She covers her face with her hands. "You're that guy."
"What guy?"
"The guy who has twelve of the same expensive shirt. Like a cartoon character. Do you also have a walk-in closet organized by color?"
I take a sip of my scotch. "By season, actually."
She stares at me, then laughs again—that same unfiltered laugh that does something unfortunate to my pulse.
Something I haven't felt since before Isabelle.
Since before I learned that everyone has an angle, that every genuine moment might be performance.
"You're messing with me,” she adds.
"Am I?"
"I can't tell. You have an excellent poker face." She takes a measured sip of her drink, letting out a small moan that makes my jaw tighten. "Oh. Oh, this is really good."
"Château Margaux generally is."
"Okay, Mr. Twelve Expensive Shirts. Since we're apparently seat-mates for the next several hours, maybe we should introduce ourselves? I'm Harper."
She extends her hand—the same hand that recently assaulted me with tomato juice—and I take it.
Her handshake is firm.
"Vic."
"Vic," she repeats. "That's very... distinguished. It fits you.”
“Fits me?”
"You know. The hair. The jaw. The general aura of controlled intensity." She takes another sip of wine, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I'm going to stop talking now before I accidentally compliment you again."
"Too late."
"Dammit."
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates. I pull it from my pocket and see Rachel's name on the screen—my publicist, texting for the third time today.
Rachel Stone: The press release needs your approval before 6 PM. Also, your brother called the office again.
My jaw tightens.
I silence the phone and set it face-down on the armrest.
"Everything okay?" Harper asks.
"Just work."
