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“Oh becauseyouwere so helpful.” We follow the bartender into the shadowy depths of the nightclub, bickering quietly, the backs of our hands brushing as we walk. I drop an octave for my patented Mr Coltrane impression. “Grump grump grump. That’s my WIFE.”
A loud huff. “I cannot wait to divorce you.”
“Works for me.” I jab him in the ribs. “Alimony, bitches.”
The sigh that gusts out of my boss makes my mouth twitch. And this is a shit show, no doubt about it, but there is a silver lining: I couldn’t have planned a better way of torturing this man if I tried.
We both know why he’s in such a foul mood, and it’s only partly the hangover.
It’s because I’m the last woman he’d marry in the whole world.
* * *
“This must be so embarrassing for you.”
Sitting cross-legged on a worn brown sofa, I spin my newfound wedding ring around my finger as my boss hunkers beside me, elbows propped on his knees. He stares unblinkingly at the monitor before us, watching the world’s most boring show as on the screen we sip mineral waters and chat sedately with yesterday’s client and his entourage in the club’s VIP area.
“Boss. Hey, listen. I bet youhatethis.”
Guy scrubs a hand down his face, still staring at the screen. “Of course I hate this. And of course I’m embarrassed, Effie. For fuck’s sake.”
Aw. It’s no fun tormenting him when he just rolls over and takes it, but if it’s possible, Guy looks worse by the minute. He’s ashen, dark shadows clinging beneath his eyes, and a nasty bruise is spreading over his firm jaw.
“It looks like someone punched you.”
He grunts. “Feels like it too.”
“Think you deserved it?”
My boss sighs. “Signs point to yes.”
Oh dear. I do not want to go on this quest with a sad, broken man. That sounds like the worst possible path. See, as far as I can tell, we’ve alreadydoneit—we’ve already made all the huge mistakes we can make. And now we either sit back and marvel at our own glorious idiocy, or we stew and make ourselves feel worse. I know which optionIpick.
“I know.” I scramble off the sofa, nearly tripping over my own feet, and stumble across the cluttered room to stand beside the screen. “You’re always bitching at me to work on my presentation skills. Well, this is the perfect time to practice, because I have some points to make.”
Guy pinches the bridge of his nose, and I hate to admit it, but he looksgood, even now. Even hungover as hell, clutching a bottle of water like it’s the fountain of youth, his broad shoulders fill out his shirt and his dark blond hair is the perfect length for tugging. It falls over his forehead, over his pinched, scowling eyebrows.
And I can’t help myself. Ilovegrumpy Guy. Whenever he grits out my name, all low and filled with warning, I get all tingly. All I want to do is annoy him even worse.
“Exhibit A.” I jab a finger at the Effie on the screen, nodding along and making dutiful notes on her work phone. “A model employee. Innocently taking notes for her ogre of a boss.”
Guy scoffs.
“Exhibit B.” We both watch as the Guy on the screen stands and shakes hands with Jensen, our base jumper client dressed in a bright orange tropical shirt. It’s extra lurid next to Guy’s sleek black suit. “An advertising CEO shaking hands with a known thrill addict and generally unreliable man. And, oh—yep. Yeah, there you go.”
Last night’s Guy nods along as Jensen calls for a round of drinks from a passing waitress. And when a tray of shots lands on the table between us all, he hands one to me first.
It’s not that weird, honestly. Our business meetings often end with drinks. Advertising is a creative field, and Guy needs to seem cool and edgy to win the best clients.Iknow he’s a big dork, obviously, but most people don’t.
And we’ve never had any issues. We always stay for one or two, then duck out.
“This is it.” Guy leans closer, the sofa creaking under his weight. I stare at the screen too, holding my breath, my faux presentation forgotten.
We toss back the drinks, the movements jerky and small on the screen. And a few minutes later, when another tray of drinks arrives, Guy and I are talking together in the VIP booth.Arguing, our heads bent super close, so out of place in our office wear.We’re so absorbed in whatever we’re saying that we don’t notice Jensen dropping something in every glass except two on the tray.
He turns around to pass them out one by one to his entourage. And meanwhile our present day selves watch in horror as someone’s knee nudges the tray and sends it spinning on the shiny surface, the undoctored drinks whirling around to settle in a new position.
“Oh no,” I moan.
