Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Raya
“Wow,” Eloise says. “So, this guy is loaded.”
We step into the darkened apartment, which, I now realize, is the entire top floor of the building. We’re fourteen stories up, and there’s a wall of windows with a stunning view of Lake Michigan on the opposite side of the room.
“They’re professional athletes, Eloise,” I say. “They’re all loaded.” And that is another reason to steer clear. The last thing I need is another man who’s used to getting whatever he wants.
This makes me think of Rich, the corporate version of a professional athlete. Cocky. Full of himself. And used to getting whatever—and whoever—he wants.
I look around the room for a quiet corner where I can hide.
Eloise bumps my shoulder with hers. “I’ve already caught two guys checking you out.”
It takes everything within me to not turn and walk back out the door.
Dallas emerges from the crowd and scoops Poppy into a hug. “Been waiting for you!” he says loudly, over the din.
She smiles at him like a lovesick teenager, and I look away—just in time to notice Eloise is no longer next to me.
If this were a cartoon, an Eloise-shaped cloud would be hovering where she stood two seconds ago. I look around and see she’s already on the dance floor. She throws her head back in a laugh as she bounces around like she’s having the time of her life.
She makes it look so easy.
I stiffen at the reminder that it’s not so for me.
Some days I envy my youngest sister. Scratch that. Most days. She’d be lost in a boardroom, but she sure knows how to connect with people.
“Hey Raya,” Dallas says.
I force a smile and nod. “Hello.”
“Happy Halloween.” He holds his hands out, as if taking in my costume. “Solid choice.”
“According to my sisters I have Morticia vibes,” I say without emotion, playing the part.
He laughs, and I see why Poppy is so enamored with him.
Despite my initial hesitation, Dallas Burke has proven himself over and over again. He’s good to my sister—good for her too. They’re not a power couple, they’re a comfort couple. And somehow, I think that’s even better.
For Poppy, I mean. Not for me.
Comfort has never been my goal.
“Can I steal her for a second?” Dallas looks at me. “A friend of mine was asking about caterers last week, and I wanted to introduce Poppy.”
Poppy’s eyes go wide, and I know her business needs this.
Her restaurant is doing well, and Dallas’s connections have taken it to a whole new level.
But she’s still trying to dig herself out of some unfortunate debt, so she needs to take advantage of every open door.
Besides, she’s an amazing chef. She deserves this.
She grabs my arm. “I’ll be right back, okay? I promise.” She looks at me earnestly, and I know if I don’t convince her I’m okay, she won’t leave my side.
I squeeze her arm and nod. “Go. I’m totally capable of handling myself.”
She pulls me into a quick hug and whispers, “You sure?”
I pull back slightly and say, “If I get overwhelmed by the small talk, I’ll go hide in the bathroom.”
She laughs, but we both know I’m not kidding.
I might be strong and confident at work, but that’s different. I know what I’m doing there. I’m prepared. If Poppy’s a chef, I’m a baker. Give me the recipe, the plan, the order of operations, and I’m your girl.
If I have to wing it? Improvise a conversation that isn’t about recruiting candidates for high-level executive positions? Bathroom time.
Poppy smiles at me, then I watch as Dallas leads her away in the direction of a small group of people near the kitchen.
I fidget for a moment, tugging once again at the front of my costume, then take a few steps toward the windows.
Maybe if I hug the perimeter, stay in the shadows, everyone will leave me alone.
I can put in my time, then go home and work.
I pull out my phone to make sure I don’t have a new text from Suze, then quickly tuck it back in my tiny, black purse.
I slowly make my way around the room, doing my best to avoid the gyrating bodies, and walk over to the bar. At least if I’m holding a drink, I’ll have something to do with my hands.
There are two Barbies and a “naughty” nurse (eye roll) in line, and a guy wearing a reddish leather jacket behind the counter, making drinks.
A firefighter gets in line behind me. I don’t watch hockey, so he could be a star player, or a coach, or a guy who wandered in from the lobby, and I’d have no idea.
He leans in close. “You here alone?”
I straighten. “No.” I search my mind for something—anything—else to say, but I come up empty.
I can practically hear Eloise begging me to at least try to have fun, but when I turn back to fumble through something else to say, he’s gone.
I’m not disappointed.
Finally, it’s my turn at the bar. Without looking, I lean toward the guy in the leather jacket and practically yell, “Can I just get a Coke?” without really looking at him.
“I thought your drink was a Long Island iced tea,” he says.
Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I recognize that voice.
I look up.
I blink.
As the room shrinks and the background noises fade, my entire world collapses in on me. The bartender. From Christmas Eve.
Five years ago.
“Hey there, Hart.” He pins me in place with a smile. “Remember me?”
Unfortunately, yes.
“What are you . . .?” But my voice trails off. Because it’s Finn. Bartender Finn. The guy who witnessed my first—and only—full-fledged meltdown. The guy who knows things about me that nobody else knows.
He’s filled out and bulked up. A man version of the boy I saw five years ago. If I walked into his bar today, I’m pretty sure I’d look twice.
“Love the costume” he nods at me. “Are you an undertaker?”
“Morticia Addams,” I say, wishing I were anyone else. Someone with a mask, preferably.
“Morticia . . . right.” He gives me a nod. “You wear it well.” He opens a can of Coke and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I turn it around in my hands, then lean closer and hiss, “What are you doing here?” I’m not surprised he’s still bartending, if I’m honest, but I am surprised he’s doing it here. I mean—what are the odds?
He leans toward me and mimics my hiss. “What are you doing here?”
“My sisters dragged me,” I say, inching back—our faces do not need to be that close. “One of them is dating a hockey player. Believe me, I’d rather be home with a giant stuffed-crust pizza and my pajama pants.”
“Not into Halloween, then?”
I glare at him. “Do I seem like the Halloween type?”
“Not even a little bit.”
I frown. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Peter Quill,” he says, arms wide, spinning around, pretending like he has a microphone. “Come and get your love,” he sings.
“Who?”
“Come on, man . . .Star-Lord? From Guardians of the Galaxy?”
“Never saw it.”
“What?” He gasps, like this is the craziest thing he’s ever heard. “That’s a travesty. It’s the best Marvel movie.” He pauses. “Second best.” Another pause. “Hmm. Top five, definitely.” He watches me. “We should watch it sometime!”
“No thanks,” I say absently. “I don’t think it’s my kind of movie.”
He looks like he’s fake pouting, and I catch a glimpse of Poppy and Dallas walking our way in the reflection of the mirror behind him.
I drop my gaze to him. “Listen, my sisters don’t know about—”
“The night you tried to kiss me?” Finn cuts in, voice low.
My eyes go wide. “That is not what happened.”
He pulls a face.
“Are you going to make this a thing?” I feel myself reeling.
“Probably.” He grins. If I weren’t so annoyed, I might find him attractive. Completely wrong for me, but the man is good-looking.
I look away, irritated.
“All right, I get it,” he says. “You want me to keep your secret.”
“That’d be great.”
“Sorry about that, Ray,” Poppy says when she reaches me. “Oh! I see you met Finn.”
“I did,” I say. “Just now, uh, right this second. He gave me this.” I hold up the Coke.
“She’s living on the edge tonight! Watch out!” Finn says.
“Brook-ie!” The firefighter emerges from the crowd and claps Finn on the shoulder. “Don’t you have people to do that?” He nods toward the bar.
Wait. Did he just call Finn “Brookie?”
My mind slides the pieces around, trying—failing—to slot them into place.
Finn laughs. “Yeah, she had to use the bathroom. I used to tend bar back in college, so you know—muscle memory.” He looks at me when he says this.
I thought Finn was the bartender. But he’s not the bartender.
He lives here.
This is his penthouse.
Because he’s a professional hockey player.
The put-together pieces are unexpected.
A woman dressed in a white button-down and black pants walks up. “Thanks for the break, Finn, I thought I was going to wet my pants.”
He nods, flashing her that cocky grin. “Glad to help. Only broke four glasses,” he jokes, as he steps out from behind the bar. Poppy and Dallas move toward the counter to order, and he slides around the front of the bar next to me.
I feel my shoulders tense. Because Finn . . . is unfortunately very physically attractive.
“You look confused,” he says.
“Brookie?”
“Oh, yeah. My last name’s Holbrook,” he says. “It’s a nickname. I lobbied for ‘Cowboy,’ or ‘Studcake,’ but I was outvoted.”
I frown, but assume that has something to do with the fact that he’s from Montana. Are there cowboys in Montana? Also, why do I remember that little detail from five years ago? Hadn’t I scrubbed that night from my memory?
Another guy appears out of nowhere and calls out, “Brookie!” and Finn high-fives him right over my head.
“So—you play hockey.” The second the words leave my mouth, I realize how stupid they are. I’m probably the only person in this entire apartment who didn’t know that.
“I do, as a matter of fact.” He laughs. “Not a fan?”
I wince. “Sorry. I don’t like sports.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, almost like he’s talking to one of his friends, and the heat of it zips straight through me.