Page 158 of The Doctors Will See You Now

Obviously, I’d made a critical error. My best friend wasn’t even in the country. And she wouldn’t be in the States for the next month because she’d be busy traveling through Europe on a goddamn PR tour with her soon-to-be Spanish lover.

Fucking hell. I wish I were in Europe right now with my soon-to-be Spanish lover.

Wait. I don’t want a lover. Boy toy? Yeah, that’s much better.

“Didn’t she just leave on that business trip?” my father questioned. “I thought Jean-Pierre had helped her book the hotels in France?”

Goddamn it. Was it hot in here? Bright? Had we teleported into a fucking interrogation room?

Scott quirked a brow. “Did you maybe get the dates confused, Harlow?”

Ugh. Fuck you, Scott Shepard.

“Hold on… Let me double-check my calendar…” I held up one finger and pretended to go through the calendar on my phone. Really, I was just scrolling back and forth from one end of my apps to the other. I didn’t even keep a fucking calendar. Believe me, I’d tried numerous times to keep up with my schedule, but I always forgot to track dates after about a week of pretending to be organized. “Oh! It looks like I got the months confused,” I lied with a relieved smile. “It’s not until next month. I’m completely free tonight.”

“Boy,” Scott chimed in with an amused smirk, his body nearly quaking with unspent laughter. “That’s a relief.”

“I know, right?” I said in the fakest voice that had ever left my lips. Splenda had nothing on this shit. “It’s like the stars have aligned tonight.” To make my life a living hell…

“They definitely have. This really has turned out to be a fantastic night,” my father said with a smile in Nicole’s direction.

And, no surprise, she was smiling, too. And when I glanced at Scott in my periphery, he was also smiling. Most likely at my discomfort, but still, every-fucking-body was smiling.

Besides me.

“Where should we go, Low?” my father asked and then grinned proudly when he added, “My Harlow always knows the best places in the city to go for every occasion. I have a feeling it’s from all of that column research she does.”

“Well…” I started with a forced smile, scrambling to think of the worst place within a five-block radius and coming up empty. Goddamn, the last thing I wanted was to pick somewhere inviting. I’d never get rid of Scott.

“Maybe it would be a good idea if we stick to a bar close by. Something local and relaxed, though. No Times Square hot spots. You know, so it will be easy to chat about the show.” And hopefully, the wine will be cheap, and I can drown my misery in alcohol…

“What a good idea,” Scott interjected, but his voice reeked of sarcasm. “And who knows? Maybe Harlow will find some inspiration for one of her columns.”

“Wouldn’t that be great?” my dad agreed with a grin. “Kill two birds with one stone.”

“Exactly.” Scott winked in my direction, and I fought the urge to flip him off. “Well,” he said and gestured toward the aisle with his hand, “let’s continue this wonderful evening of getting to know one another.”

A wonderful evening of getting to know Dr. ERotic?

Someone. Help. Me.

“What is this place?” Harlow asked as we stepped inside of Mustang’s, one of the best barely known gems in Manhattan.

Part dive bar, part think tank, the walls were lined with patron-created drinks written on cocktail napkins, envelopes, old newspapers, and the like. It was the only place I’d ever been to that didn’t recognize standard drinks as common practice. Instead, you made up your own, tried it out, and if the bartender deemed it “sea-worthy”—or sellable—your concoction got tacked up on the wall after you gave it a name. If you didn’t like whatever came from your experimental mind, you could try again or order someone else’s proven success story by picking from the walls. It had to be at least slightly cost-ineffective, wasting liquor on unsuccessful samples, but somehow, they made it work.

Maybe that’s where the dive bar part comes into play.

Instead of going into the details, I pushed Harlow toward the bar, my mom and Harlow’s dad following closely behind. “You’ll see.”

Her dad had touted her as one of the best locals in New York, a real gal of the town who knew exactly where to go for the best atmosphere, but she’d fallen pretty spectacularly on her face when forced to come up with a place under pressure.

I had a feeling that was her mind and body’s way of revolting against my presence more than anything, though.

“Have you never been here?” my mom asked Harlow excitedly. This was one of her favorite places ever, the two success stories she’d ever created, a Limeade Tequila Sunrise and a Drug Dealer—two parts Coca-Cola, one part cherry juice, and one part rum—her pride and joy.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the second one was basically just a rum and Coke, and the bartender apparently didn’t either. Still, I had to give her bonus points for creativity on the name.

Harlow shook her head before my mom directed the question to her dad. He shook his head too. “How’d you find this place?” Bill asked.