I ignore the heat rising up my neck. “I was wondering what your book is about.”
“It’s a romance.”
“Yeah, the bare-chested guy on the cover clued me in. Gotta say, that’s not what I would’ve expected you to be reading in your spare time.”
“Oh? And what would you have expected me to read instead?” She rests her chin on top of her knuckles, waiting.
“Probably a pop psych book about how to make people like you more. Or maybe a business guide to help your flailing little indie label.” She rolls her eyes and scowls, and I drag a hand across my jaw to wipe away the smile tugging at my lips. It’s way too much fun, riling her up. “Guess I didn’t picture you as a romantic,Ellie.”
Her eyes narrow, and she’s quiet for long enough that I grow uneasy. I play what I said over in my mind, and internallycringe at the implication I think about her in the first place.
“Don’t call me that” is what she winds up saying.
I take a sip of water, let it cool me down. “Aw, how come Tyler gets to call you Ellie but I don’t?”
“Because I actually like Tyler,” she says with a biting smile.
A hand over my heart. “You wound me.”
“I wish,” she mumbles.
This time, I don’t bother to hide my smirk as I stab another bite of macaroni with my fork. “You sure we can trust this guy?”
She shrugs, easy. “Of course. Tyler will get it done.”
Of course. Why would I ever doubt her random stoner friend? Naturally, he is the best person for the job. “So you guys met in undergrad?”
“Yeah. The dorms, freshman year.”
“Sounds like the two of you partied a lot.”
Eleanor puts her book down again, this time seeming to give up on reading because she doesn’t bother to mark her place. “I mean, it was college. We got high sometimes. Who didn’t?”
“I didn’t.”
She makes a face as she tucks her book back into her bag. “Why does that not surprise me.”
Offense taken. I set my fork down and fold my arms. “It’s not like I’m totally square—”
“Uh, I’d argue anyone who uses the termsquareabsolutely is.”
My lips purse. “I didn’t have time to fuck around.”
Eleanor reaches for her water and stabs viciously at theice with her straw. “Right. Because you went to Berklee and no one there smokes pot.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, I know what you meant. You were earning a music degree from a prestigious program, and I went to a state school and majored in business and smoked some weed, so obviously you’re better than me.”
I rear back. “Whoa. That is not what I meant at all.”
She tilts her head. “No?”
“I do not think I’m better than you. Jesus. All I’m saying is that I took school really seriously. It was important to me to try to earn my place at a label.”
“Whereas I had mine handed to me by Griffin.” Eleanor states this in a flat voice, her face void of any emotion. But I can feel her anger simmering under the surface, ready to be unleashed on me as soon as I give her a reason.
Slowly, I blow out a breath. She’s not totally off base, is the issue. I have thought that before. It never seemed fair, the way she leaped ahead of the rest of us, even though she objectively had less experience in the industry than most of the other interns. I’ve grown up enough in the time since to realize it wasn’t that cut-and-dried.
