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I’m doing okay in the Jimmy Choo stilettos I saved from my sister’s wedding, but I’m watching for any sort of crack or bump on the sidewalk that could send me tumbling. I thought about wearing sneakers or even my Birks, and then putting the heels on when I arrived, but Arthur wouldn’t hear of it.
So, I’m mincing down the street, thanking God I only have to walk a few blocks.
I hear and smell the party before I get there, the tinkling jazz seeping out onto the sidewalk, not to mention the smell of more meat than I’d like to think about.
Walking through the door is like arriving on the set of the TV show Bachelor, with all the beautiful people, beautifully dressed, sipping beautiful cocktails, and having beautiful conversations. I nearly wince from the perfection of it, but remember the posture lessons Arthur gave me, and to purse my lips slightly to elevate my cheek bones. I’m wearing Stepford Wife-level pleasantness, not at all my usual style, but if it helps me blend in and make connections that can help Pawsh, then a little facial cramping is well worth it.
I just hope they have a carrot stick or two for me to nibble on.
A hand lands on my elbow and I turn to see Owen, whom I’ve met once in the shop.
“Oh, hi,” I say, sticking my hand out straight for a shake.
“Olive—” he starts to say.
“Hey, who told you that’s my name?”
Jesus, girl, calm down.
“Oh, well, you’re in the neighborhood registry. You know, the one that lists all the shops and such?”
Goddamn, he’s good-looking, and even in my heels, I still look up at him.
“Yeah. That’s right. That’s how I know your name is Owen Whitlocke. Well, please call me Livvy. I hate Olive. It was my grandmother’s name, and she was an awful, awful person. She sent my dad off to an orphanage when he was only—”
“Livvy, I want you to formally meet my business partners.” His smile never wavers as he masterfully cuts me off with more charm than is humanly possible.
He waves over the other two guys I’ve passed on the street a couple times and spotted from our shared alley, who are equally, freakishly, good-looking. And friendly. And happy to see me.
A wave of… I don’t know… maybe discomfort? passes over me. These three masters of the universe, eager to meet me with their outstretched hands and perfect teeth, remind me of the alarm I felt when the popular girls in high school were nice to me. Turned out they wanted to copy my homework.
This time around, I have no homework to offer these guys. Do I have something else they want? Are they after free dog food? Kitty litter?
I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, but they’re so damn nice, chatting me up like they really give a shit about me, which I know they don’t, but the attention is nice all the same, if only for a few minutes.
I’m sure they’ll be on to some other guest momentarily, leaving me sipping my cranberry cocktail in the corner through one of those minuscule straws that are really meant for stirring.
These men, Owen, Weston, and Enzo, were crafted by gods, and in particular, the god of haute cuisine, should one exist.
If the curly-haired one, Enzo, isn’t already perfect enough, he points out his nonna across the room, wearing a somber black dress, her silver hair piled on her head, but smiling at the constant flow of people fawning over her.
He’s either a genuinely nice guy laying it on thick for the ‘awe’ factor, or he’s a genuine mama’s boy. Or rather, grandmama’s boy.
I cut to the chase, through the bullshit, with the foremost thing on my mind. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time, and I don’t want mine wasted either.
“Hey, look, guys,” I say in a quiet voice.
They take a step closer to hear me and they smell really, really good.
“I might as well just tell you now, I can’t afford to eat here. You don’t have to be all nice to me and stuff.”
I look from one to the other, proud of myself for letting them off the hook.
They stare back.
Then Owen laughs awkwardly, followed by Weston, and Enzo points toward his nonna.
“Gotta go check on my grandmother.” He bolts.
