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“We’re celebrating?”
“Yes. I got that movie role I auditioned for when I was in New York! And you’re still in the running for America Rocks, despite all the naysayers. Let’s get a table in the bar, and I can give you a proper bottoms up.”
Pun intended, her look assures me. I ignore that for the moment, because I’m still confused, but I do offer her congratulations and go along as she starts moving us toward the bar. “How did you know where to find me?”
Her brow wrinkles at my question as we walk into the paneled and mirrored bar decorated like a nineteenth century gentlemen’s club. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Rather than answer, a lead weight sinks in my stomach. I glance around. Where the hell is my father?
We approach a table in the center of the room—optimal for seeing and being seen—and I spy Kit, a cameraman, and another guy sitting at the bar. Kit gives me a “gotcha” smile and taps one of the guys on the shoulder.
Awesome. I acknowledge her with a head nod that says, What? I told you she’s a friend.
As we settle into deep leather chairs, Becca’s pretty eyes look slightly bruised at my silence. I reach across the table and give her hand a quick squeeze. “Thanks for being here. I didn’t know you were back in town.”
She shrugs. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“Mission accomplished.” I look over her shoulder to see where the hell my father is.
“He’s not coming,” she says. “You’ve got me instead.”
Our eyes meet and hold, and for the first time I realize I’m not the only person my dad likes to manipulate.
“We’ve fed the media the authorized crumbs.” She pauses while a waiter delivers an apparently preordered bottle of champagne, pours two glasses into long crystal flutes, and leaves the bottle nestled in a silver bucket brimming with ice. When he retreats, Becca twirls the stem of her glass between her fingers and looks at me like I’m the center of her universe. “Now it’s time to give them something less authorized to chew on. Vaughn Shaughnessy and Rebecca Bismark…are they or aren’t they madly in love?”
I lean back in my chair and wish we didn’t have to have this conversation in public. “I’ve already told them we’re not.”
“Are you sure about that?” She tips her head to a coy angle. Her foot finds mine under the table, and she runs her toe up my shin.
“Bec.” I pull my legs under my chair as I rest my forearms on the table and lean toward her. “I don’t want to pretend with you anymore.”
“But I’m about to break big. Same for you. If we play this right, combining our momentum will give us both an extra boost. And…”
“And what?”
“Nothing.” She lifts her glass and clicks it to mine. “To us.”
I down my glass in one long gulp and place it carefully on the table before saying, “There is no us,” I reiterate. “Not for public consumption.”
“And privately?” Uncharacteristic vulnerability laces her words, but I honestly don’t know if it’s authentic or an act.
“You don’t need me there, either. Not anymore.”
She crosses her arms, studies me. “Well, it’s not really up to us, is it?”
I frown as my dad’s words from earlier this evening replay in my mind. I added a few additional things, including one for this evening. I’m going to strangle him. My phone buzzes as that lightning hot thought singes deep into my brain. The screen fills with a text.
Enjoy the champagne. We’ll catch up tomorrow.
Fuck strangling him. I am definitely going to fire my dad.
