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“Sounds like fairly typical Georgiana Watkins,” he says. But he’s smiling. Oh, how far we’ve come.
“I can clean up,” Pam tells me. “It’s the least I can do for spoiling your surprise. What I need to talk about won’t take long, and then you guys can get right back to your dinner.”
A clear dismissal, but an understandable one. If she came all the way into a city she doesn’t even like in order to talk with her brother-in-law, it’s got to be about something important. And perhaps not something she wants to talk about in front of a stranger.
“I’ll take you up on that,” I say, smiling to reassure her I’m not offended at being kicked out. “I’d tell you to leave the mess so I can get to it later, but I think our tidy Andrew might have a little heart attack.”
“How does this even happen?” Andrew says, gesturing toward a rogue piece of cheese that is nowhere near the cutting board or the package, and then running a finger through a coating of flour on the counter.
I reach up and pat his cheek. “You should probably accept now that being in my orbit can get messy.”
“News flash: I learned that months ago,” he mutters, swiping the flour-tipped finger down my nose. But his fingers close around my wrist before I can flit away, and he pulls me close and brushes a soft kiss over my lips. “Text you later?”
I nod, pressing my lips together and wishing I could kiss him again. All night, really.
He winks, as though reading my thoughts, and I have to step back, because I’m about two seconds away from jumping him.
“Nice to meet you, Pam,” I say, wiping off the flour on my nose. “Thanks again for your rescue mission with the chicken.”
“My pleasure, Georgie.”
“See?” I say, looking at Andrew and pointing at Pam as I walk backward to the front door. “Georgie
. Your sister-in-law got it right on the first try. By the way, Pam, did you know Andrew and I both like the color red? Don’t you think that means we’re soul mates?”
“Goodbye, Georgiana,” Andrew says, his voice exasperated, as he pulls a wineglass for himself down from the cabinet.
I open the door to his apartment and blow him a kiss. Which he neither catches nor returns, but he’s smiling.
And I’m starting to freak out—just a little—that I like being a part of his life. I like it way too much.
Georgie
THURSDAY, EARLY, EARLY MORNING
“Georgie Francie Watkins, where the hell have you been?”
I’m just stepping into the VIP lounge area, plucking my dress away from my damp skin and breathing hard, when my best friend slams into me with a tipsy hug.
“Don’t be mad,” I coo, petting Marley’s head. “You know you’re the only one allowed to call me Georgie Francie, so that’s something.”
She releases me from the bear hug and plants a smacking kiss on my cheek before pulling back to study me. “Oh, damn,” she says with a mock sigh.
“What?”
“You look happy,” she says, a little petulantly. “Like glowy and satisfied and…happy.”
I laugh, lifting my hands to my cheeks. “I’m happy to be here.”
“Maybe,” she says with pursed lips. “But it’s something else. You’re in loooooove.” She drags out the last word like she’s eleven.
“I’m not!” I protest. “I’ve only been seeing the guy for a week.”
“Sure, but with months’ worth of foreplay, you’re on an accelerated timeline.” Marley puts her arm around my shoulder and drags me to our table, where we both plop into the booth. It’s early in the night, so most of our group’s either not here or on the dance floor, energy still high.
“I nearly freaked when I got to the table and you weren’t here,” Marley says, smiling in thanks as one of our go-to servers races over to bring Marley a vodka tonic. “I thought you bailed.”
I point down toward the dance floor below. “DJ’s been on a Beyoncé kick. You know I can’t resist the Queen.”
