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“Oh, but it goes with the rest of you.”
I shake my head. Kimberly can be a bitch for no reason. I stand up to intervene when Bridget smiles.
“Thanks,” she says. “You know, I’m curious to know who did your boobs for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t get me wrong, they look great, just a tad overdone.”
Kimberly looks ready to commit murder. Her tits are a sensitive subject. She’s had them enlarged twice and prefers to pass them off as au natural.
She turns to Eric. “Are you ready to go?” She looks at me next. “This club isn’t what it used to be.”
“I’ll have my assistant set up a meeting,” Eric says to me as Kimberly tugs him away.
Bridget moves to the railing, her back to me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your ex-girlfriend,” she says when I stand next to her.
“How’d you know they were fake?”
“It was a guess. She looks like she weighs a hundred pounds, but her boobs look like they weigh thirty.” Leaning her arms atop the railing, she puts her head in her hands. “I’m a terrible guest.”
“I probably didn’t put you in the best mood. I attacked your sweater first.”
“That’s true, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on your girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend. Sort-of ex-girlfriend. We weren’t that committed.”
I don’t know why I find myself explaining this to a woman I don’t expect to see again. She’s raising her brows at me, too, as if I’ve said something wrong.
“You judging me?” I ask.
“No, I get there are gray areas in relationships.”
I feel like calling her bullshit, but I spot Olga coming up the stairs. I also notice that Amy doesn’t look so well.
“Darren, I’ve been looking for you,” Olga says, coming toward me and wrapping her arm around my waist. “I feel like going up to your place. I want you to tie me up like you did to me last time.”
I see Bridget raise those damn brows again.
“Olga, this is Bridget,” I introduce. “Bridget, Olga.”
Olga turns around, surprised that someone is there. I can tell she’s inebriated by her several attempts to focus her gaze on Bridget.
“Ah…wait. Are you that ugly-sweater woman?”
I give Olga a stern look. Getting the message, she mutters a sorry and saunters over to the dim sum.
When I turn my attention back to Bridget, she looks pensive but not devastated.
“I know you guys want me to burn that sweater,” she says, “but until I find something warmer, I’m keeping— Or not.”
I turn around to see that Amy has upchucked all over the sweater.
