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“Damn right you do. Where can I put this?” The question was directed at me as she held a large dress bag aloft.
“In the office.”
She hooked an arm through mine and squeezed me into her side. “Well then lead the way!”
I was sure I felt Mack’s attention on us until we disappeared into the short hall.
“Do you always bring a costume change?” I asked as I opened the office door and showed Harley inside.
“Not always, no. But, as much as I like being a sexy turkey”—she gave a small shimmy before hanging the bag off the shelves—“this corset is not conducive to the food baby I plan on having later. A change of costume was required today.”
“What could possibly top this?” I nodded at her. ”Sexy… pilgrim?”
“There’s nothing sexy about genocide.”
“Good point.”
“So…” she purred, returning her hand to the crook of my elbow. “Who do we have our eyes on tonight?”
An awkward laugh slipped out as I said, “No one.”
“Oh man, you’ve got it bad, come on, you might as well tell me who it is now. It’ll save me the trouble of figuring it out for myself, which you know I will.”
I didn’t doubt her. Only there was nothing for her to figure out, because I didn’t have my eye on anyone. Obviously.
“Honestly, Harley, there’s no one. I’m not—I don’t—I am quite happily single.”
“Me too, girl, all the more reason to have a hot naked man in your bed by the end of the night. You can tell me, I’m basically a vault, is it Mack? You two would be—”
“No!” I spluttered. “No, absolutely not. Mack and I are friends. That would be terrible, a really bad, terrible idea. It would probably be like kissing my brother.”Lies. Lies. Lies. “Not that I’ve got one, but if I did...” I needed to stop talking, immediately.
“I do have a brother, and I have a friend like that… but I’ve not got that vibe from you two, that hundred percent platonic thing. Huh, maybe I got it wrong…” She unlinked her arm from mine.
“Got what wrong?” I asked as she stepped out into the hall.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Man, I need a drink!” Then she was gone in a flurry of feathers.
I loved Thanksgiving.For the last five years, it had been my favorite holiday because I’d been able to do it on my terms. Mack and I planned the whole thing together, exactly how we wanted it. It was one of those things that made me feel like I was properly adulting, whatever the fuck that meant anymore. I wasn’t married, I didn’t own my own home, or have any children, but I could plan the hell out of Thanksgiving. That was satisfying.
Despite that, and the fact that this year’s event was the biggest success we’d hosted, I was in a bad mood.
I really shouldn’t be. I should be in a wonderful mood. I had a belly full of delicious food (including my favorite sweet potato pie). I was surrounded by friends who felt like family. I was warm and suitably buzzed on Mack’s Thanksgiving sangria. On paper, things were downright perfect. I was even managing to compartmentalize my guilt over the argument with Mom earlier in the week—the sangria was helping in that department.
And, yet, I was in a bad mood.
“Chase!” Lindsay beamed at me, an almost empty glass in one hand. Even well on the way to drunk, the woman was graceful. A ballerina, through and through. “Thank you so much for today. I’m sorry again for just turning up unannounced. I really did think Jeremy told you I was coming.”
“Lindsay, for the fortieth time, it’s fine, we’ve loved having you here.” Some of us more than others. Mack had been paying Lindsay impressive amounts of attention throughout the afternoon. Not surprising, really. As far as I could tell, the woman was perfect. She was in a pair of emerald, wide-legged pants that emphasized the length of her legs and a silk blouse the color of fresh cream. I had secretly wished for her to spill pinot down the front of her perfect blouse more than once. If I had somehow developed the power of telekinesis, our lunch table would have been a scene from Carrie, with cranberry sauce or Pinot standing in for pig’s blood. It didn’t happen. And, honestly, I was confident if it had she probably would have made that look graceful, too.
I might as well have been covered in sticky, cloying cranberry sauce. It was an accurate metaphor for the feelings that were coating my insides.
Bad. Fucking. Mood.
Lindsay upended her glass, catching the last few drops of Pinot. I did the same with my almost full one.
“Okay…” she started, with a determined and somewhat sheepish look on her face. I noted that, despite at least three glasses of red wine, her teeth were still white. Did she have stain repelling teeth or something? “Is Mack seeing anyone at the moment?”
My vision was doused in red for a beat.
