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“Shit,” I sigh. “I’m sorry.” I grab her champagne from her, downing the rest. “I’m just feeling a bit off.”
“Yep, weddings are weird.”
“It’s not that,” I reply. “I mean, yeah, they are, but it’s not my first. I’m just… ready to go back to my yoga retreat and try and switch my brain off for a few more days.”
“How much longer are you staying?”
“Till Sunday.”
Nisha cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Cause I think I overhead Grey saying he’s staying till Sunday too. What are the chances?”
20
Indigo
“We’ll get more than that,” I decide as a lady saunters up to the stage to collect her two season tickets to the Washington National Opera.
“Well, you will, Miss Hot Stuff,” replies Nisha. “Hachiko’s boyfriend is a cheap bastard. And I bet no one pays more than a hundred bucks for me.”
I spin to face her. “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice shaky. “Aren’t they bidding on us as a package?”
“No. Anne thought we’d make more if they did individual bidding.”
“What the fuck?” I whisper, glancing around to make sure no one can hear me. “What the actual fuck? That’s ridiculous. What if we don’t get the same amounts? How are the others gonna feel?”
“How arewegonna feel, you mean?” corrects Sarah sitting on the other side of Nisha.
“And now…” Anne’s booming voice—one which sounds like a foghorn stuck on full blast—ricochets through my ear canals. “We have four lovely ladies who are offering three slow dances.”
“Oh God, welcome to the first level of hell,” I moan to Nisha’s chuckle.
With butterflies throwing a rave in my belly, I glance behind me, my eyes landing on a rather full tumbler of whiskey sitting inside a kinda hot forty-something man’s grasp.
Fuck it.
I lean over. “Um, excuse me, sir?”
His beguiled eyes shift to me.
“Can I drink that?”
“Indie!” chastises Nisha as Anne’s voice blares out.
The man’s look of confusion morphs into an amused smirk as I silently plead with him. “Sure, doll.”
“Thank you.”
I take the tumbler from his hand and lift it to my lips. The second the pungent amber liquid hits my tongue, I close my eyes, tipping the glass back until ice cubes plonk themselves against my lips with a clunk and I down the whole thing, the whiskey burning my throat like low-grade acid as the rich smell of oak floods my nostrils.
“Thank you,” I reply, handing him back his empty glass. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“You’re one of the bridesmaids offering a dance, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I may have to bid now.”
I grin, turning back around.
