Emma kneeled dutifully beside Alicia and encouraged her to drink more water. She could feel Sully standing behind her. “Thanks for bailing me out. Chet’s not too happy with me right now.”
“So, you’re tight with Chet?”
Emma stood. “Yeah. He’s kind of like my big brother.”
“Cool.”
The liquid confidence the beer had given her seemed to dissipate in Sully’s company. Emma glanced at Alicia. “Though he’s probably never going to forgive me for this.”
“He’s just doing his job as big brother.” He nodded toward Alicia, who was now slumped in her seat, eyes closed. “She seems like a sweet kid.”
“She is.” But before she could think of anything more to say, something else caught Sully’s attention, and he walked away.
Emma sucked in her breath. God, she sucked at small talk. Maybe she should go get Chet, after all. Alicia was falling asleep. The night was over.
But to her surprise, Sully came back. This time, with two more chairs. She tried to hide her smile as he set them down. “Had to shake people out of these,” he joked.
“I doubt that.” When she sat, their knees touched, just like that first night in the boat.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Emma looked up at the sky, letting the moment play out. “You’re Sully McMahon. That’s all.”
He laughed, in that way that made his eyes crinkle. “So?”
“So people respond to that. Though I can’t figure out why. I mean you’re great and all. But not that great…” She caught herself, and tried to play it off as a joke.
But Sully wasn’t letting her off the hook. He elbowed her lightly. “You think I’m great?”
Emma felt her face flush. She tried to think of something sarcastic to say, anything to downplay what had just tumbled out of her mouth, but when their eyes met she gave up. Sully held her gaze. “Sometimes, you can be kind of great,” she saidfinally.
Then, before she could look away, Sully leaned in and pressed his lips against hers.
Emma closed her eyes. She had never been kissed. And she had no idea what to do. But she pressed her lips to his, aware of the fullness of his mouth and the sweet taste of beer. For a moment she feared she would burst.
Suddenly there was a retching sound behind them. They broke apart and looked over their shoulders just as Alicia sprang from her chair. She made it to the railing, where she bent over and threw up all over Mr. Hastings’s brand-new hydrangeas.
Perry
He was in the middle of a meeting when the photo came through as a text message. It was bad enough he’d had to go into work on a Saturday morning, but because of the timing of the Super Bowl contract he’d had no choice but to call his entire team in for the morning. Perry had muted his phone, as he always did when working on something pressing, and he especially did not wish to be interrupted now. They were in the midst of a negotiation for the Super Bowl halftime show, and Spencer was trying to take over the meeting. This was Perry’s largest client of the year, a repeat gig his firm had landed five years earlier and one he had every intention of hanging on to. And Spencer could go to hell for trying to take the helm. Perry hadn’t worked his tail off with Bob Stanoppolis, balancing the general manager’s ego and corporate wallet, for Spencer to step on his toes in the final hour. As Spencer cited the opt-out clause, Perry glanced briefly at his phone. It was Amelia, again. He didn’t have time to look at the photo she’d sent. He swiped the screen to airplane mode and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Spencer, but I’ll take it from here.”
Forty-five minutes later the meeting was over. They’d reached an agreement, finally. Perry stood at the door, shook hands with the team, and listened to the usual winding-down banter at the closeof a successful meeting. Someone was heading to the Hamptons to play golf for the weekend. Did he play golf? How was the family? He did not, and they were fine. Perry was impatient to get back to his desk; he knew nothing was a done deal until contracts were signed.
Bob Stanoppolis paused in the doorway and extended his hand. “Thank you, Perry. Another year in the basket. Let’s hope the lead singer doesn’t get shit-faced and fall off the stage.”
Perry tried to ignore Spencer’s exaggerated burst of laughter. He forced a smile. What Bob Stanoppolis didn’t know was that the lead singer was the least of his problems. So much could go wrong: Pyrotechnics. Crowd control. Stage setup. These days, protecting against potential shooters and bomb threats was standard protocol. Bob should pray that the worst upset might be the lead singer yanking his pants down and face-planting into the audience. “To another year,” Perry said, extending his hand.
To his chagrin, Spencer followed Perry out and down the hall. “Check, please!” he barked. He clapped Perry roughly on the shoulder. “Grab a celebratory drink?”
Perry did not drink on workdays. Spencer knew that, leaving his invitation as thin as his humility. “Can’t,” Perry said. “We need to go over those provisions.”
Spencer flicked his wrist to check his watch. “Oh, yeah. About those, what do you say we tackle them in the morning?” Perry knew Spencer had no intention of looking over the provisions now or in the morning. Which was fine with him. Perry didn’t need Spencer slowing him down. His phone buzzed again.
“Tomorrow morning, then,” Perry said, moving on to his corner office. He was glad to be rid of him.
He tossed his notes on the desk and rubbed his eyes. If he ordered in takeout, he could get through half of the provisions tonight. Maura came to the door. “How’d it go?”
“Very well. A few changes and I’ll have it on your desk for review tomorrow. I want to get it over to Hanley by midmorning.”
