Chapter 11
Tablets and bars. They are a stellar combination.
I lower my new (blue-light, completely nonprescription) glasses over the bridge of my nose to give a critical look at Lyla onstage. It’s a bit challenging to see her here, though, all the way in the back behind the cluster of tall, bald men who look like they’ve all had too much to drink.
C’mon now, I want to say to the man one table over. This view is pathetic. Of all the spots in this bar, you pick this one?
The music is painfully loud, as is apparently the requirement for all places playing live music anywhere. But the room is at least on the classier end of the joints where Lyla normally has her gigs. Honestly, when we (I say “we” because Lyla, her husband, Garrett, and I are basically one unit in all things Lyla-let’s-get-you-to-become-a-country-star) got the call last Thursday that the Polar Star was inviting her to come play, we all about lost it.
I mean, this is a fair skip and jump from the greasy floorboards of O’Mainnin’s and Stateline.
This is the Polar Star.
The bouncers wear matching polos. The air smells like smoked brie and cigars. And most important, scouts attend regularly.
My phone starts ringing on my lap as Lyla starts her third song.
Game time.
I pick it up with the frazzled, busy attitude of one hating everything about this moment. “What?” I say into the receiver, loudly. “I’m busy.”
Somewhere on the opposite side of the room, Lyla’s husband mumbles something into his phone. It’s so loud that I can’t hear what he’s saying. But that doesn’t matter. We’ve done this so many times, I know the lines. “Well, I don’t care what Jerry wants. I’m occupied.”
I pause for roughly four beats and look at Lyla critically. “I’m not sure, but I may be onto a new lead.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the nearest man angle his chin my direction. His eyes skirt down me, taking me in: female, dark-brown hair in overworked bun, simple pearl studs, black sweater, boring shoes, alone, tapping occasionally on my tablet.
In an office I’d hardly look out of the ordinary, but here? Surrounded by middle- and high-class groups looking for a night on the town? I stick out like a sore thumb.
A posh, intellectual, savvy sore thumb who clearly can predict the best and brightest in the biz.
In other words, the competition.
I tap on my tablet with the phone cradled on my shoulder while Lyla sits on the barstool and sings her heart out. Maybe it’s the lighting or the venue, but tonight she truly does look and sound better than usual. The spotlight on her long, curling blond hair glinting perfectly against the backdrop of a black wainscoted wall. Her voice crystal clear, feminine, yet hinting of power and soul as she strums the song I remember her writing late one evening at university.
I tap a few nonsensical words on the tablet with my sternest I-am-important frown—LEMONADE PICKLES DAIRY FARM—and see the man raising his posture slightly and craning to see the words. Looking for some clue as to who I am, no doubt. What I think. How important my opinion is.
Lyla’s voice begins to tip up into a long, eight-beat note, the penultimate moment of her ballad, and I lift my gaze as if surprised. As the note lingers, my long-held bored expression slowly cracks. As if I’ve spent years watching nobodies, hoping to find that lost treasure, weary and exhausted as I work this lonely road. And then, suddenly, I’ve found it. My fingers slowly drop from the tablet as if I’m not even aware of them, as if they are doing what they are meant to do on their own: find and press against my chest. My heart. Because this woman onstage is it. She is the one.
Honestly. I should’ve become an actress.
Lyla ends the song and applause begins, just as I snap to attention on the phone. “Peter,” I say, scrambling for my tablet and hastily rising. “I’ve found her. I don’t care if we’re booked up. Let’s just pray she doesn’t have an agent yet.” I take a step toward her and then pause. “What do you mean you want to hear her first? Peter, we’ve got to snatch her up before somebody else will. I can’t wait until you hear her—”
I pause.
“Well, of course I’m right. I was right about my last lead, wasn’t I?”
I pause and let fury cloud my face. “Yes, but don’t you dare make me recall the moment you lost us Dierks Bentley because you thought you had time to take a bathroom break.” I dart my head around and, in the swift glance, see Garrett working his own corner, using the same script.
This is the part where I squeeze my eyes shut, look furious, and respond with, “Fine. I’ll meet you outside, but you’d better hurry.”
The plan is to follow the call with me grabbing my things, rushing outside looking terribly important, then dropping the charade and popping in next door to scroll through Pinterest before sneaking back ten minutes later to try the routine on somebody else.
For the record, we’ve been fairly successful.
In six months we’ve gotten three lurkers after her show, two approachers who gave her their card, and one who seemed incredibly eager but, when push came to shove, never called her back. It’s only a matter of time, though. These are just the bites before the big catch.
But just as I squeeze my eyes, right as I’m on the verge of giving my showstopping finale, a voice pops up beside me.
A strong voice. Masculine. And one, I realize with instant trepidation, I know. “That’s a pretty low blow to bring up Bentley.”
My eyes open, and I find myself face-to-face with Will Pennington. He’s lost some of the business-y exterior, wearing a simple taupe crew-neck sweater, dark jeans. But perhaps what’s most relaxed about him is the amused expression in his eyes. The slight smile raising his lips. How much has he heard?
I can’t help but cringe as I think about what I look like now—an absolute tablet-carrying, booking agent–imposter nutcase.
The man in the black across from me pauses. He is halfway into rising from his seat, too, possibly off at this very moment to make a go at Lyla during the pause between songs.
Shoot.
I can see the hesitancy in the man’s face, like my response in this very moment will tip the scales one way or another.
My eyes dart to his attire, making a final assessment. All-black, but not the typical, corporate all-black I’ve seen a hundred times before. No, this guy has a light beard. Black sweatshirt with bleach-white cords hanging down on both sides. Sneakers that look so new and unassuming they must cost hundreds. Eager eyes. Sleek black business card already in one hand. Classy font with fussy numbers in gold writing.
He looks new. Not new as in, “Hey, I just started this company yesterday in my basement,” but new as in, “I’m the little guy working in a totally overwhelming, posh agency, and I’d better bring in some big fish or I’m out of here.”
New and lowly in big and flashy. The perfect combination.
Shoot. There’s no choice here. Not when this very moment could be the one we look back on as the moment that changed everything.
“Peter!” I cry out. “You’re so . . . quick!” I swivel to face Lyla, now on her fourth song. “What do you think? Didn’t I tell you?”
I keep my eyes on Lyla as if I’m glued to her performance, when the reality is I’m much too terrified to watch his reaction.
But if he only knew how long Lyla had worked for this.
Marketing and design is her skill set.
Music is her soul.
For as long as I can remember, this has been her passion, and she’s never wavered. I’ve always admired her for that. For knowing what she wanted and passionately going after it, no holds barred. No matter what other people think. No matter what hardships come her way. Even on those terrible days when she showed up and sang for no one. She kept at it. I understand that. I empathize with that. I get that.
Will’s expression is stern as he gazes up at Lyla, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s playing the part of studious agent or because he’s about to tell us we’re both incredibly immature and don’t deserve to be representatives of Pennington Publishing.
And the longer he stares, the more formidable his expression feels.
It’s because he’s realizing there’s something wrong with us.
Her because she’s really trying to become a country star in this town and me, well . . . me because I spend my evenings in the back of bars, trying to lure agents into giving her a contract.
“Remarkable talent. Iconic beauty that sets her apart from the others. Do you think she’s written this song as well?”
I swivel back and, to my surprise, see Will gazing at Lyla as if entranced. He’s so convincing that for just a blink I think he might be serious.
“Yes!” I wave my hand out, much too enthusiastically. “Yes, she writes all her own songs!” I catch myself. “I recall she said so when she introduced one of them . . . at the beginning . . . at some point.”
“Well, then, let’s make haste,” Will says. “What are we waiting for?”
“Nothing!” I cry, and then catch myself. “And by nothing, I mean we can’t meet her yet. Because . . .” I stumble. What is my excuse now? He’s here, after all.
Will’s brows rise. “Because?” he says after a pause.
“Of course . . . we have to go outside first and call . . . Oswald! Oswald has to clear all decisions first as head of the agency.”
Will’s lips twitch. “Oswald,” he repeats. “Of course. With a lead like this, Oswald will have to approve. Well, then, let’s be off—” He ushers me with his hand. There’s a question in his eyes, as though he’s unsure if this is the next step in his role. “Right?”
“Right,” I say, nodding, and lead the way outside.
And sure enough, as we leave the room I glance back to see the man already off his seat, rushing like a darting, eager fawn for the stage.
The moment I burst onto the sidewalk, I’m laughing. I swivel around and see Will behind me, grinning as well.
Meanwhile, the two bouncers stand on either side of the door, looking decidedly unamused.
“Thank you,” I begin to say, just as he says, “What on earth was that?”
My laughter comes to its slow end and I grin up at him. For a moment, he looks entirely boy-like. Not like a boss by whom I’m intimidated much of the time, but like the boy next door. The one you grow up playing tricks with and throwing rocks across the creek with.
I hesitate and then go for it.
“Come with me, if you want. I’ll fill you in.”
And for just a moment, I feel the bubble I’m riding on drift downward as I see a crease form along his forehead.
I’m not sure what he’s thinking about, but it’s clear he’s hesitating. Why?
I feel a growing sense of panic.
Am I asking my boss out?
Does he think I’m asking him out?
Does he not want to come because he’s aware he’s my boss?
Does he think I’m hitting on him? Oh my gosh, am I hitting on him?
But before my thoughts can travel down that road into a new set of questions, the expression on his face dissipates.
And in its stead comes a resolutely carefree smile. “Lead the way.”
I pick the least grimy option of the five establishments surrounding me, and we make our way for the doors. The bar is oddly hot, given the cold January air on the neon-lit street outside. People swarm under at least a hundred industrial lightbulbs hanging from wires, and somewhere off in the corner another band plays. We order and slide onto two stools lining the exposed-brick wall bordering a pool table.
Will looks at me expectantly the moment we sit down. “So? Is this . . . what you do for fun, then? Impersonate booking agents on the weekends?”
“If you must know, yes,” I reply over the speakers and people and general sense of managed chaos. “It’s one of my prime hobbies these days. Gives me something to do in the evenings.”
I grin and take a sip of my beer.
“I see,” he says, eyeing me with mock critique. “So your social life in its natural state is as riveting as mine.”
“You can always join me. I’ve already seen your work tonight. I can tell we’d make a good team.”
Shoot. I’m doing it again.
I want to throw my hands out, insisting that I’m not trying to hit on him, but then realize, of course, that would only succeed in confirming those suspicions. Instead I sit here, forcing (and failing at) a nonchalant smile while pretending to be suddenly quite interested in a woman’s purse as she passes by our table. Sequins. Riveting.
But when he speaks, it’s on an entirely different topic. As if he just took the words I said and slid them neatly off the table. “So, our marketing manager and graphic designer wants to be a country star.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding eagerly, more than happy to jump to this new topic. “Yes, I think the cat is officially out of the bag. What tipped you off?”
“Well, aside from her actually singing onstage, which was the big clue, of course—”
“Of course,” I repeat.
“—I’d have to say it was the Dolly Parton hair, bedazzled belt buckle she wears to staff meetings, and framed photograph on her desk of her singing with her guitar with the words in pink puffy paint, ‘The Next Taylor Swift.’”
“Ah. Yeah,” I say, leaning against the wall. “I may be partly responsible, then. I made that frame for her back in college.” My smile carries a wince, recalling how cool and chic I thought I was back then for the metallic-gold spray-painted frame with about a thousand shakes of glitter when in reality it was (and still is) hideous. But Lyla declared she adored it and, honest to goodness, has kept it on one desk or another since.
“You’re a good friend,” Will says.
I laugh. “If you think demoting the beauty of someone else’s world with hideous homemade gifts they feel compelled to keep means I’m a good friend, then yes, I agree.”
He grins patiently, as though acknowledging my joke but wanting to stay on point. “Not just for the frame.” He waves a hand around the bar. “For what you’re doing here. For everything. Few would go out on a limb like this for their friends, simply in hopes they become a rock star.”
His expression is one of sincerity, and feeling the sudden discomfort that comes from a direct compliment, I smile. “It’s country star,” I correct. “Country star or nothing. I do have my limits.”
“Of course. My apologies. Country.”
His expression is bright—merry, even—as he grins at me. The change from his work posture to off-duty posture is astounding. His forearm resting casually on the table. Eyes dancing as we play our little games.
You could almost believe he was two different people. Will—the guy who hangs out with you after work, cracking jokes, squeezing out stories. And William Pennington—the man in the impeccable gray suit who strides down the halls like he’s in the middle of Manhattan surrounded by slow tourists and has somewhere to be.
I have been to at least six meetings this week with him and he has yet to smile. In any of them.
“Do you like your job?” The words pop out of my mouth before I can catch them. “This new one, I mean.”
Immediately, his relaxed face tightens.
“I’m just wondering because,” I add quickly, “I imagine there’s a lot of pressure. You know, being at the top. Tough economic times. All that.”
You shouldn’t have brought it up, Sav. Clearly the man doesn’t want to be reminded. I’m terrible. I’m like that stranger in the grocery store who asks you if you feel bad because you look terrible.
“I’m not at the top,” he says.
“Oh, right,” I say. The last thing I want to do is quibble over definitions of exactly what “at the top” means. “Sure. So, it’s not that bad, then, I hope. I was just wondering. Anyway.”
I look down at my boring black shoes and brace myself against the sudden shift of position. One moment I felt, I don’t know, attractive and fun. Now I feel like a child in a school uniform talking to her teacher.
“I didn’t say you were wrong,” he says after a pause. “Just that I’m not at the top. And that, actually, is the problem.”
Wow. So he’s going with honesty. If he wasn’t sitting here looking at me with such a modest and frank expression, if I was instead looking at his words alone on a transcript, I’d say he was incredibly prideful, leaning toward egotistical. After all, who admits candidly that the problem is that he’s not the CEO of the company? As if his personal ambition was rightfully wounded by such a “problem” as being second in command. As he explains to me, a lowly assistant acquisitions editor. Talk about the first of First World problems.
But there is something about his expression that hints I’m not reading his words correctly, and I am just about to open my mouth and ask for clarification when he raises his brows at me and says, “Why? What do I look like at work to you?”
“Oh . . .” I let out a nervous laugh because that is the farthest thing I want to discuss. And how exactly would that go over? Well, Will, since you ask. You look and act as rigid as a pin needle, with a scary razor tip. You are terrifying, 100 percent business, and, frankly, 99 percent of the time, look miserable.
The week after our impromptu meeting at the Painted Pony, he’d hardly met my eye. It was like the meeting had never even happened. All he did was give out orders, work behind a closed door ten hours a day, mysteriously leave for days at a time, and, one scary afternoon, fire Clyve. (Who, let’s be honest, was the marketing manager but had yet to understand a computer. It was time.)
But even so, the main word that comes to mind is scary.
“Efficient,” I say at last, settling on the least offensive, possibly complimentary term possible. “You seem efficient.”
“Efficient,” he says slowly.
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur between pressed lips, not daring to give anything more.
He gives me one long, dubious look and then, to my surprise, laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard it. A heady sound, full and rich. It’s such a nice sound that it’s a real pity to the world he doesn’t laugh more often. Even the two women behind us who turn seem to think so.
I lean forward a little, smiling brighter.
Not territorially, of course. There’s nothing to own here. Nothing to claim.
Just . . . a little movement.
“You know, Savannah,” Will says, not seeming to notice, “you’d do just fine in New York. But how about we just . . . leave the office at the office.” His eyes land on a dartboard on the opposite wall and a couple, having thrown the last dart, moving toward the exit. “How about a game? Or . . . are you needed back at the Polar Star for an encore?”
The reality is I am wanted back at the restaurant. Although, really, I did a pretty good job tonight with that one man. With any luck, that agent has already slipped Lyla his calling card by now.
And anyway, it’s probably healthy for me to do something else socially for once.
Lyla, for her part, would be proud. She’s always saying I need to get out more, doing things particularly outside the realm of sitting somewhere doing something with Ferris and Olivia.
“This is usually the part where I make a scene waving a contract over my head trying to get Lyla to sign, but it can wait,” I say, sliding off my chair. “Darts it is.”
As we weave through the crowd, I realize I never asked him if he had to get back to his own group at the restaurant. He didn’t come alone, surely. He’s not one of those guys who rounds out his Friday nights alone at some upscale bar, right?
I risk a glance at him, suddenly feeling a swell of pity.
Gosh.
How did I not see it all this time?
He has just moved back from the City. Left his whole life up there after being dumped by his publisher. Come here after having been gone a lifetime. Only to discover all of his old friends are gone. People have moved on. Moved away. Gotten married and had babies and left him, just when he’s returned home, utterly desolate and shaken and in need of old chums to fill the void. And now here he is.
On a Friday night.
Alone.
It’s terrible, really.
All this time he’s walked around acting so independent and unconcerned and so . . . so . . . in charge, when in reality none of us at Pennington Pub really see him beyond being “the new scary boss.”
I feel a sense of duty welling up inside me.
It’s the Cade way after all: to be the change we wish to see in the world.
Great opportunities to help people seldom come, but small ones surround us every day.
We rise by lifting others.
All that.
With my head full of platitudes, I feel my energy lift as I walk beside him to the dartboard.
I feel quite charitable, in fact.
I mean, this isn’t quite up to the share-my-latest-good-deed-at-the-family-table-over-dinner level, and it’s not tax-deductible (as my parents always ask), but it is close.
I grab three gold and weary darts off the board and step back to the nearly rubbed-off red strip painted on the floor. I give Will a bright smile.
“After you,” he says, ushering with his hand. “You ever play before?”
“A bit,” I respond, raising the dart and squinting at the board for a practice throw. I toss and it lands on the beige nine.
“Care to make it interesting?” he asks as I move aside and he takes my place.
I eye him. Measure him up. “Maybe. How?” My eyes brighten as an idea forms. “If I win, I get executive-level voting power during the next pub meeting.”
He tilts his head with an incredulous brow. “You want to wager becoming the boss. Over a game of darts.”
“No,” I say, raising a finger. “I want to become boss over winning a game of darts. There’s a difference.”
He laughs and throws a dart. It lands squarely on the red eighteen. “I was thinking more along the lines of whoever loses buys fries. But how about this?” He pauses. “Loser has to answer a question.”
“A game of Truth or Dare? Are we in middle school?”
“There’ll be conditions,” he adds.
“Like what?” I say. And even with the thought of it, I feel my energy zinging, giving me a high. The atmosphere around us is loud, buoyant. Music is playing from at least three directions. The clamor of plates and glasses is everywhere.
All of this is the same as when I was stuck with Tom at the Painted Pony Saloon, and yet here with Will the floor doesn’t look so much beer-stained as richly vintaged with the wear of a hundred thousand friends gathering over the years. The sound isn’t throbbingly loud so much as vibrant and alive. Even the cluster beside me doesn’t look so much brazenly drunk as just very, very friendly.
Well, except for that guy who just stumbled off his stool. A little more awkward than friendly.
“We each get three vetoes. And, of course, we will keep this on a professional level.”
Professional. Of course.
“So basically like the icebreaker ‘get to know you’ game Yossi tried to get us to play during our last retreat.”
“But with fries,” he adds, raising a finger. “I’ll be a good boss and throw in a basket of fries.”
I frown. “Yossi tried that tactic, too, but with doughnuts.”
But despite myself, I can’t help cracking a smile as he heads for the bar.
A few minutes later, he returns with a basket in hand. “Ladies first,” he says.
I stand at the line. “I’m beginning to feel like I’ve gotten swindled into working on a weekend,” I mumble, gazing at the board.
I throw my first three and come to a total of 32.
He throws his, and the total comes to 40.
“So,” he says, pulling the darts off the board. “Why do you want executive voting power at pub board next week? What’s your angle?”
“No angle. It’s just . . .” I shrug. “Rob is going to push for the Weaver proposal, and Giselle is going to sway the group toward that influencer singing group, and they’re both bad calls.”
“Because you want Smith,” Will says matter-of-factly.
“No, I’ve reread his proposal and done a little more digging, and I’m losing my enthusiasm for him. I’ll still take him to the meeting, but between you and me, I’m not sold.”
Will gives another one of those rare laughs and throws a dart. Then another. “That’s quite the candid statement.”
I smile a little as I watch him throw his third. “Well . . .” I shrug, warming up to the realization that I do always say too much to him. And he never seems to mind. “I’ll still do my best to sell him in there, but let’s just say if I end up convincing you all, I’ll have also convinced myself.”
“Then what’s wrong with the Weaver project or the singing group? If you aren’t gunning for your own author, what’s your opinion on them?”
“Well, Rob may think Weaver has all the potential in the world, but I’m nearly positive his social media platform is bolstered by paid bots on his Instagram.” I pause as I move into position before the board, then cast a look back. “I mean, honestly, Will. His area is taxidermy. Where are these two hundred thousand passionate followers of taxidermy? Where? And as for the singing group . . .” I shrug. “They may technically be celebrities, but they’re still pretty low on the totem pole. Mostly, though, the issue is the manuscript. It lacks originality, passion, and purpose. They never have a clearly defined goal, they never captured my interest, and frankly, they’re not famous enough to have us assume people will buy it based off their brand alone. They’re not a household name, which means sales would have to actually rely on good content. Which it doesn’t have.”
I throw a dart, and it lands on a beige 15.
“Wow. A spitfire response from such a fair face,” he says.
My cheeks tingle at the compliment. Right? Was that sincere? “Well, it’s the truth. And I don’t get paid to give fluff.”
“And can you take it like you give it?”
There’s a playfulness in the question, but even so, I’m slightly stilled. It does sound quite critical, doesn’t it? I never had thought of myself as harsh before, but isn’t this just the way my mystery editor would say it too? But then, there’s the difference. I would never say any of this directly to those authors. I’d pack it deep, deep within a thick layer of compliments.
“No,” I admit. “I get wounded easily. It’s a flaw, really. One shot and I act like a wounded doe, limping around for a week. Anyway,” I say, throwing another dart, “we were talking about the proposed projects.”
“So you don’t trust Giselle’s judgment?” he says, crossing his arms as he waits for his turn. “She does have several stellar clients.”
“Sure,” I say, taking aim and putting the board in my line of sight. “Because she always dumps the worst authors on us and takes the best for herself. Last year I discovered two authors from the slush pile, wooed them, got them through pub board, and the second everyone got on board she slid her name into the contracts and bumped me out.”
It’s not until after I throw my third, watch it land on the triple twenty, and turn with a gleeful grin that I realize Will is no longer looking as relaxed as I am. No. He’s frowning now, suddenly looking quite a bit taller, shoulders broader, as he gazes at me with arms still crossed over his chest. In fact, he doesn’t seem to look like he saw my winning shot at all.
“Which contracts?” he says.
I stiffen.
But his gaze is penetrating, and I’ve learned enough in the last two weeks never to dance around a reply. “Dutton and Seuss.”
I can’t be sure, but I feel like the lighting must have shifted. It’s the only way to explain how his eyes are starting to take on that iceberg-blue fire. “What about Harry Sullivan? Surely he would’ve put a stop to that. He was her boss.”
I clench my jaw. “Well . . . if you haven’t noticed, Giselle is fairly intimidating.”
And then I realize. He really hasn’t noticed. He’s so scary himself, he hasn’t had a clue.
“Does my mother know about this?” he says.
“Your mom?” I can’t help but reply. “Your mom is her biggest fan. Nobody would dare tell on her.”
Except me, apparently, I think, biting my lip. The one who just revealed this information oh so candidly to her son.
“The mismanagement of this company is overwhelming,” he says, spitting out the words more to himself than to me.
For a moment I feel a swell of pity for him. Coming home with no other options, discovering his mother’s empire she built from the sweat of her brow under not just financial crisis but intense management duress. Being hit with waves of new problems every day, some of which his own mother is to blame for, while also dealing with the confusion of their mingled professional and personal relationship. It certainly would be a shock.
“Well, it’s not all that bad,” I say. “We’ve made it this far, after all.”
“By the skin of our teeth,” he says without emotion.
He looks so frustrated, I pity him.
“And the people who do remain are—for the most part—loyal and talented. We may not be Sterling, of course, but the people at Pennington do love their jobs. We’re even, in our own odd sort of way, like a family.” I smile good-humoredly. “Even with Giselle being the classic wicked stepsister. We’re going to come out of this. You’ll see.”
His expression shifts as I talk—an expression that for some reason makes my spine start to tingle. The fury in his eyes isn’t totally dissipated; it’s more like embers now, glowing in the background. They’re clearly going to be burning for a long time. But there’s now a sort of thoughtfulness in his eyes, too, as he gazes into my own.
Somewhere in the distance “Big Green Tractor” starts to play. Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple of people shuffling closer, eyeing the dartboard enviously.
“Well,” I say after a long pause. “I think we may need a new game.”
There’s another long pause, and we both just look at each other, trying to sort out how the next moment will go. It seems like we’re standing on a scale, trying to decide in the middle of a millisecond our next move. On the one hand something feels decidedly off—me chatting with the boss, sharing secrets. Talking too much. But on the other hand . . . the more tempting hand . . . it’s nice here. Cozy.
We both hear a phone ringing from his pocket, and after some hesitation, Will pulls it out. He looks at the name on the screen for a moment, then at me. “I probably should get going,” he says.
“Me too,” I agree—all too readily. I gather my things.
As we move back onto the street, I feel the ambience shifting, the evening festivities coming to a close despite the continued party around us. Will shoves both hands into his pockets.
Almost like we’re in high school and he’s walking me home.
But why?
The thoughts continue, pestering me as we head back to the Polar Star. What exactly made Will come here tonight, alone? Who exactly called him, telling him it was time to leave?
The buzzing on his phone was the reality check that he has a life behind a door I haven’t been welcomed through yet. Perhaps will never be.
The thought disappoints me, silly as it is, and I scrabble to ignore it.
“So,” I say, not even sure where the rest of my sentence is going to go. “I never got to ask you any questions.”
“I suppose you didn’t,” he replies, nodding to the men on either side of the door as we brandish our IDs.
A part of me feels my spirits lift as I realize he’s coming in behind me. He’s coming inside, not parting ways at the sidewalk and drifting off into the stream of traffic.
Up the narrow stairs to the restaurant’s main floor. He’s not leaving. Yet.
And for the first moment of our acquaintance, I admit to myself, just a little, how aware I am of Will Pennington. He’s scary, sure. Terribly intimidating when he stands at the podium, looking over the group of us with a sort of intense weariness that says, What am I going to do with this lot? But . . . he’s playful too. Spontaneous. Fun. He clearly doesn’t just live for work all the time.
He can’t be but a few years older than me, but he’s like a grownup, a real grownup who dresses the part, acts the part, is the part. Unlike me, who rents a room from my younger sister, chases after outlandish and unpredictable dreams like writing, and has a real fear that someone will discover I still have no clue how taxes work. I’m just a kid playing in an adult’s body.
Will, on the other hand . . .
I glance back, see the way his wavy hair lifts carelessly to one side. A touch of hair product on it. Just enough to style, not enough to overwhelm.
He’s truly . . . a man.
“So,” I continue, holding the railing as I move up the stairs. “Do you like country music?”
It’s the worst, the lamest, question in all the world, but it’s all I can think of as I reach the top step.
“Hate it.”
“There you are!”
I halt. Because there, standing right in front of us, is Giselle.