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“Oh. Savannah.” Giselle’s lips pucker into a thoughtful, quite expensive-looking frown. “I didn’t know you were coming to this little soiree.”

Soiree, as a matter of fact, was my Word of the Day three weeks ago. Soirees are reserved for intimate gatherings. Upscale parties. Special get-togethers. She’s used the term perfectly.

I don’t have the heart or willpower to glance over at Will. I mean, I just said those things about her. I just ratted her out. I feel like I just discovered Will was playing on the opposite team all this time. All that time in the bar next door it felt like he was an untaken player, someone who hadn’t been picked up yet for the team on either side. The red team: full of executives with all the power. Or the blue team: the rest of us at Pennington. The underdogs. The common man.

But he’s the publisher of Pennington Pen. He’s Ms. Pennington’s own son. Of course he’s one of them.

And Giselle, to drive the nail in the coffin, looks dazzling. Her short platinum hair looks so silky smooth she could be in a Pantene commercial, and the silvery top beneath a sharp white blazer shimmers in the light to give just the right playful touch to this business affair.

Me, on the other hand . . . I feel my face wincing despite myself. I actually spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror this evening working to make my bun look like the product of an overworked genius of an agent who didn’t care a wit about the world around her.

Quickly, I run my hand over the side of my bun.

“Oh,” I say, as casually as I can muster. “No, we just bumped into each other.”

“Ah.” What little interest she had in me shifts back to Will. “Well, Will, we were starting to worry. I was just about to get Sam to check the restrooms to make sure you hadn’t hit your head and weren’t stranded somewhere.” She gives a little laugh just as Sam pops up beside her, and my misery is complete.

Evidently I was shielded from view by Giselle, because the second Sam’s eyes move from Will to me, he gives an almost imperceptible startle. “Savannah. Hello.”

“Hi.” There’s something extra amiss in his tone. It’s almost the stilted remember-that-first-terrible-date greeting he usually has. Almost. But no, at this moment there’s no mistaking it’s something more. Extra cautious. Extra nervous. The way his hands shift uncomfortably toward his pockets. Now his gaze moves pointedly to Will, almost as though he’s guilty about something. Hiding something.

Just like he was outside the ARC room.

And again my thoughts give a flourishing, Sam? Could he really be my mystery man?

“Our food is here,” Sam murmurs, in a tone that even for Sam is over the top. Of course, he is the passive one in the on-off relationship that is Giselle-and-Sam. I mean, he’d have to be. If there were two people as aggressive as Giselle in the relationship, they’d kill each other. So, while I’m used to seeing the tail-between-his-legs attitude whenever the two are together, it’s surprising seeing it even worse now.

“Finally,” Giselle says. “I told you all we shouldn’t have come here. This place not only looks like two tins of condemned veal but is just as slow as it is plug-ugly. Let’s go sit.”

But as she trots off, Sam following like a puppy, Will doesn’t move.

When the world apparently shakes because somebody hasn’t blindly followed her directions, she stops.

Turns.

“I’ll be right there,” Will says, not moving.

She plasters on a bright smile. “Great.”

But then she doesn’t move either.

The two of them smile expectantly at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment until, when it can’t be any more evident that he is not going to walk with her to the booth no matter how long she silently grins at him, Giselle lifts her chin. “We’ll just tell everyone you’re coming . . . then.”

“Good plan.” Will gives a short nod, and when it’s quite clear she’s gone, he looks down at me. “Well. Savannah. Thank you for the interruption this evening. It was a most welcome one.”

I want to say, You, sir, were the one who originally interrupted me, remember? But it seems trivial to point it out.

“Enjoy your . . . meeting,” I say.

I also want to add, And please, please don’t repeat what I told you about Giselle to that group. But that seems desperate, and won’t make any difference anyway. If he wants to share with them what I said, he’ll share.

So, with very little power over the situation, I smile as merrily as I can and give a little wave, trying very hard not to look like the girl who didn’t make the softball team. “See you Monday.”

He nods, but his eyes are already starting to cloud as he turns toward the booth that lies ahead.

* * *

Giselle has been demoted.