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Ten minutes later, all her food is gone, and she’s drunk two cups of coffee.
“Ok,” Amelia admits. “It’s possible I was a little hangry.”
I’m on the verge of telling her she needs to take care of herself when I stop myself. She’s not my family, she’s not even a friend. She’s an employee I’ll hardly ever interact with directly once this presentation is finished.
So instead I drawl, “How generous of you to allow the possibility that I’m right.”
Amelia raises one shoulder in a cheeky shrug. “So, about the presentation—”
“The bachelorette party’s a non-issue,” I say.
“Why are we still talking about this?”
“Because we need to dispense with the distractions so you can focus on what’s important,” I say. “When’s your party?”
“Next Friday,” she sighs.
Good. Plenty of time. “You’ll have it at the Mirrorball Club,” I decide. “The owner owes me a favor.”
She laughs. Then notices my face. “Oh. You’re serious.”
I feel weirdly off balance. I thought the Mirrorball was a good idea. I can’t remember the last time a beautiful woman laughed at one of my ideas.
Not that her being beautiful has anything to do with this conversation.
I scowl. “What’s wrong with the Mirrorball?”
“It’s uh, lovely, but...Cole it’s a little out of my price range. Even if I wasn’t saving for...” She trails off, biting her lip again.
There it is, I think. The second distraction. The one she doesn’t want to talk to me about.
It occurs to me I could probably let her keep one secret. But now it’s going to distractme.
“I told you, the owner owes me a favor.” I wave a hand. “Don’t worry about the money. It’s covered.”
She looks at me, wide-eyed. “Just like that. One of the hottest clubs of the year is just...covered.”
I find myself getting irritated. It’s not like it’s a big deal. Honestly, has no one ever done a favor for this woman before?
“Amelia. When I say I’ll solve something, I solve it. Understand?”
She nods, wide-eyed. She’s staring at me like I’m some sort of magical creature.
I roll my shoulders, strangely restless. “Now. About the other thing.”
She looks up at the ceiling. “What thing?” she asks innocently.
“The thing you’re saving up for.”
She flushes and looks down at her plate. “I’m not saving up for anything.”
She’s a worse liar than my seven-year-old, Kiera.
“A new apartment?” I guess. “A car?”
“Don’t be silly,” she says.
“So it’s bigger than that.” I rest my chin on my hand, thinking. “A wedding dress?”
