Page 116 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Samantha! Samantha!” shrieked the woman from the table behind me. “He’s here. Oh my God, he’s here! He just walked in! How’s my hair? How do my boobs look? Do you think he likes blondes? He has to, right? Who doesn’t? So what should I do? Maybe I go over there and just say, ‘I’ve been looking for a big cocktail.’ That sounds good, right?”

A ball of ice formed in my stomach as I looked over at the door. A noisy group had just entered, clad in tight clothing and glitter, practically screaming social media. But there at the back of the group was a face I knew all too well. I suddenly wanted to be anywhere else in the world. What in the nine circles of hell was happening?

“What is it?” Jennifer asked. “What are you looking at? Oh. Oh, God! Wait.” She whipped her head around, her eyes practically bugging out of her head. “Isn’t that⁠—”

“Yes,” I said. Aiden Callihan, in the flesh.

Fuck my life.

“Hoooooly shit,” Jennifer crowed. She knew the whole story—or at least, as much of the story as I knew, given the radio fucking silence I’d gotten from him after our high school breakup. “How long’s it been?”

“Since I’ve seen him in person? Years now.”

“I wonder what he’s doing here.”

“Besides crashing my event? I don’t know.” Okay, I knew it wasn’t my event. But damnit, this was supposed to be my night—my chance to kick my life into a whole new gear. Him showing up was like a neon, blinking sign from fate saying Nope, you’re not allowed to have nice things. “Don’t they have some snooty private club for the mega-rich he can go to?” Like Glenhaven. That’s one of those rich-son-of-a-bitch hangouts.

Jennifer tilted her head, admiring him. “Wow, they really didn’t have to airbrush him at all for that magazine cover, did they?”

“Shut up.” I peered out between my fingers. She was right. He looked even better than he did on all those billboards and bus signs. I didn’t want to admit his jaw was really that chiseled or his eyes were that blue or his hair was actually lush and a perfect shade of golden blond. I remembered twisting my fingers through those curls as a teenager.

Was there a way to sneak past him? Maybe if I crawled under the table? No, too dramatic.

“Okay, I know you hate his guts, but like, wow,” Jennifer continued. “He’s like a walking reminder that I haven’t had sex in…” She slurped her drink. “Too freaking long.”

I still couldn’t believe it. Of all the damn bars in Manhattan, why did he have to show up at this one?

Jennifer waggled her brows at me. “He’s gonna walk right past us.”

“Unfortunately.” I averted my gaze.

“No, wait, he’s coming over here,” she said, sounding both intrigued and concerned.

“Like here here?” Shit. I could taste the bile in the back of my throat. It tasted like panic.

“Like he’s walking right up to our table. Now he’s looking at you. Oh, God. What should we do?”

I chanced another glance and swore under my breath as I caught his eye. His face morphed into something like a smile as he closed the distance between us, but I could tell he was anything but happy as the crowd jostled him. Some girl bumped into him, sloshing her drink, and his mask dropped, a grimace momentarily clouding his features as he smoothed his hand down the front of his jacket. So that hadn’t changed—he still hated this kind of scene. But that begged the question of what he was doing here, looking like he was a man with a mission that ticked him off.

By the time he reached us, he’d painted on that tight smile again. “Wow,” Aiden said. His eyes flicked over me like he was appraising a painting. “This is unexpected. The Masked Mixer herself. My night just got better.”

I stiffened, opening my mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Jennifer slurped her drink noisily.

I’d been working hard to be stone-faced, to give nothing away, but my jaw dropped. What the absolute hell? He didn’t recognize me! Well, he did, but only as the Masked Mixer. So not only had I been dumpable all those years ago, but I was forgettable too? Why not give me some papercuts and spritz lemon juice over them, asshole? Was this flimsy little mask really enough to hide my identity from someone who used to tell me that looking into my eyes was like looking at the stars?

Blah. I wanted to throw something—a drink, preferably—at that too-perfect face and watch it drip off that chiseled jaw, messing up his probably-designer clothes. But that would be a waste of a good drink.

He leaned against our table, close enough for those blue eyes of his to twinkle under the elaborate lighting rig overhead. His eyes shouldn’t be allowed to twinkle like that. “I’ve heard some amazing things about you.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, trying not to grimace in response. Save it, Mr. Elixir. I know your games.

“Yeah.”

“And what’s that?” Jennifer asked.

I threw her the mother of all glares. She hiccupped and covered her mouth.