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“I don’t run anything,” I try to correct her. “I just sign the checks.”
“Don’t be modest,” she coos, and I find myself missing Callie more than ever. She never cooed at me once or batted her eyes like this. And I know, even a month ago I would have loved getting my ego stroked by this woman saying all the right things, but now?
I don’t feel anything.
“You should take me out for dinner,” the woman flirts, fixing me with a sultry look. “And tell me all about yourself. I hear Melissandre is great,” she adds, naming the hottest, priciest new restaurant in town. “I’ve been dying to get a table, but I’m guessing you can just make a call.”
I snort. “Not these days.”
“What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you heard?” I ask. “I’ve been cut off. No more fancy dinners for me. It’s hot-dogs from here on out.”
Her face changes. Just a glimpse, but I can see the disinterest flash in her eyes. “Oh. What a shame. I, umm… It was nice meeting you.”
“Sure was,” I say cheerfully, watching her grab her friend, and try to move away from me and my empty pockets.
Turns out, there’s an unexpected upside to losing access to the Dashford trust: It’s easy to tell who was ever only interested for my VIP passes and platinum Amex.
Unlike Callie.
I feel another pang of regret. Even though our whole fake date arrangement revolved around cash, I never thought for a moment she cared about my family’s money. In fact, she teased me mercilessly about it. To her, my privilege was a liability, not a selling point, and she wasted no time putting me in my place.
Damn, I miss that. I miss everything about her.
I tap out with Austin. “See you at the bar,” I tell him. “Or not.”
“Sure thing,” he winks, cheerful. “Don’t wait up!”
* * *
I don’t have any plans for the afternoon, so I head over to our new cocktail spot, Renegades—hoping some of the guys are around to keep me distracted from the ‘Greatest Hits of Callie and Dash’ show that’s been running in my brain, every quiet moment that comes along.
The two of us, taking shelter from the rain in the boathouse… Singing along to dumb shit on the radio on the drive back… I mean, damn, she even made picking slugs off her fun.
As I walk in the bar, there’s a brunette with her back turned, wearing a red shirt just like one of Callie’s. For a moment, my heart lifts, thinking it might be her… But then the woman turns, and greets her boyfriend, and I deflate again.
So much for no strings. It’s not lost on me that the whole reason I wanted a fake date to play my girlfriend was to prevent anyone catching feelings when they’re not supposed to.
I just didn’t expect that I would be the one reduced to a wallowing mess.
“Dash, my man.” Seb emerges from the back room. “You’re right on time. I’m testing out a new cocktail. I tried it on a beach in Bali. You take coconut milk, rum, a raw egg—”
“Uh, another time maybe,” I cut him off, trying not to gag. Sebastian has amazing taste in liquor—but can concoct some truly terrible drinks in his quest for greatness. “I think I’ll stick to a classic, this time.”
“Boring,” he says with a smirk. Then his eyes widen, seeing something behind me. “I… Have an appointment. I’ll leave you to it.”
I turn, in time to see Zelda walk into the bar.
And no, that’s not the setup for a bad joke.
“Grandma?” I ask cautiously, as she makes her way to me. We haven’t spoken since the night of the botched fake non-proposal. Not unless you count the terse letter from her lawyers, informing me that my access to the Dashford trust has been permanently rescinded.
Now, she stands in front of me, looking totally out of place here in her Chanel and gold jewelry. I know I should have apologized by now for everything, but the more I think about it, the more I’m not exactly thrilled over her behavior, either: the way she wielded that trust to try and keep me in line all these years.
I’m waiting for her critical comments as she casts her eye around the new bar. But instead, she summons the bartender.
“Well,” she says, giving me a look. “I think it’s about time the two of us had a drink.”
