And now, a guy named Dylan, who I had accidentally saved in my phone as Damon, was standing right in front of me.
Dylan-not-Damon and I had been on a handful of dates last year.
“I’m surprised that you’re at this party.” He was drunk; his speech carried a vaguely fluid quality that hinted he was surprised to be standing upright. And he was gripping a plastic cup, evidently determined to get more drunk.
“Da—Dylan, hi,” I said. “What party is this? I’m meeting a friend.” I looked past Dylan-not-Damon to see if I could spot Gemma.
“Good luck. This place is a madhouse. People everywhere.” Dylan leaned in so I could hear him over the roaring soundtrack. “How’s work? Last time we talked, you were slammed with a new project.”
Right. Work. My excuse for dodging a fourth date with Dylan last year.
“You’re in marketing, right?” Dylan said, as if trying to jog his memory. But his smile smugly said,You’re welcome,like he was sure he had nailed it.
“Not exactly,” I said, but there was no point in outright correcting him. There was a good chance a blackout was waiting for him at the bottom of the cup he was holding. “Where’d you find that?” I pointed to his drink.
“Oh!” He smacked his forehead. “I’m sorry. You want me to get you one?”
“That would be great,” I said. “Vodka soda.” He’d either successfully find me a beverage or fall into a shrub and forget this conversation entirely. A win either way.
As he walked away, Dylan bobbed his head to the music, a dopey, vacant look on his face. It was like watching a dog tied to a bike rack, waiting for his owner to return.
“Hey, Este.” Someone touched a hand to my elbow, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I turned to find Beau Walker, effortlessly put together in a button-down shirt and sports coat. He looked good. And that hum of attraction from the bar stirred low in my chest, unbidden but inevitable.
“Beau…” I stalled. I couldn’t think of anything past that to say. My brain glitched to a full blue screen.
“What brings Este Todd out this way?” he asked with a smile.
I stammered, “Y-you never called.”
Literally hundreds of thousands of words in the English language, and I choose those three. Awesome.
“I’ve been busy,” he answered, a little sheepishly. “But I kept your card. I even looked you up.”
I shouldn’t have liked hearing that. But I did. And Beau could tell—my cheeks flushed before I could think to hide it.
“Did you find my mug shot or my LinkedIn profile?” I joked, trying to shake off the pull between us.
“Better. Did you know there’s an article about your award-winning science fair project from middle school?”
I tried not to let him see my surprise. “That was a very good day for me. I wowed the judges with a fruit fly genetics experiment.”
“Sounds unforgettable.” He looked between me and the drink in his hand. “But your chief of staff to Simon Avery title is probably the detail you lead with.”
“Most days.” I nodded. “And since you’ve mentioned it, Simon would love to sit down with you to talk about InfoSynth.”
“Persistent.” He smiled.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not at all.” He took a sip of his drink. “How about I have my office call on Monday and set it up.”
“Perfect.” I kept my face neutral as adrenaline curled hot in my stomach. Simon would want to hear this the second I could slip away, and I couldn’t wait to hear his reaction.
Beau didn’t respond right away, and it gave me a moment to notice how people brushed past him, trying to catch his eye orangling their bodies toward him. But Beau barely registered them. His gaze stayed locked on me—steady, deliberate—as if I were the only person in the room worth noticing.
Why does that feel so good?
