Chapter 10
Lior
“I’m getting too old for this,” I said to my friend Lane, as we sipped glasses of Prosecco at the bar and watched her girlfriend Greta try to twerk on the dance floor surrounded by a dozen of her closest friends.
“Dear god,” Lane said, covering her eyes as she laughed. Greta had zero rhythm. “Make it stop.”
Lane worked in the upper echelons of Dior. We’d met years ago and became instant friends due to her naughty humor and infectious laugh. When I’d gotten the invitation in the mail for Greta’s birthday, to be held at a popular nightclub they were renting out, I’d immediately texted, “Whyyyyyy?”
Followed, of course, by a yes.
“She’s turning thirty,” Lane had explained when she’d called rather than texted back. “And thought it would be fun to see her twenties out in the same way she saw them in. At least, I hope that’s all this is, and not a cry for help or an early mid-life crisis.”
There were at least a hundred people in attendance. They included a handful of Lane’s friends from the industry, and then ninety of Greta’s closest pals.
I recognized several people from gatherings at Lane and Greta’s house over the years, but most were strangers who were trying and failing not to stare at me, and so I’d found a safe spot at the far end of the bar and wasn’t surprised at all when Lane joined me.
While she was happy to do whatever Greta wanted, clubs had never been her scene.
“Is it over yet?” she asked. “I swear I’ve already lost ten percent of my hearing and three brain cells just by being here.”
“I mean, one might argue you lost those brain cells when you agreed to this party.”
“How could I deny her? Look how happy she is!”
I looked to the dance floor again where Greta was now bouncing up-and-down, her bobbed black hair swinging just slightly off-beat, a huge smile on her face.
“Is she drunk or high?” I asked.
“A little of both,” Lane said. “Maybe that’s what I need to get through this.”
“Stick to the alcohol,” I said. “Or you won’t want to get out of bed tomorrow.”
“You’d think it would get easier with age. Like we’ve trained for it or something. Why does it get harder?”
“That is the cruel twist of fate, my friend. At least you look amazing.”
Her platinum hair was braided and wrapped around her head, her makeup was pure 1950s pinup, and her clothes screamed punk rock. High end punk rock. She was in head-to-toe Dior after all.
Greta spotted us and yelled, waving us over.
“Shit,” we both said, before downing our drinks and making our way through the crowd, Lane dragging me by the hand.
I danced until I was sweaty, forgetting the onlookers with their phones pointed in our direction – or at least ignoring them as best I could.
My hair stuck to my neck and back as the alcohol and pulsating music pulled me in and relaxed me.
It had been a while since I’d let myself go on a dance floor and it felt freeing.
Joyful. A release of pent-up emotions. All my worry for Addie.
Stress about work. Irritation towards stupid Graham Forrester.
As he appeared in my mind, he also somehow appeared across the room.
I stopped moving, my breath catching in my throat as I met his gaze through the crowd. And then Lane grabbed my arm and spun me around.
“I need another drink!” she shouted over the music before taking my hand and pulling me through the sea of bodies to the bar.
While she ordered us two more glasses of sparkling wine, I searched the faces for Graham, wondering if he’d been illusion and I was now just seeing him everywhere.
But a moment later I spotted him leaning against the partition separating the dance floor from a bunch of tables and chairs, talking to another man.
“Do you know Graham Forrester?” I asked Lane as she handed me a wine glass.
“Who?”
“Graham Forrester. The author.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar. Is he here or something?”
“Yes.”
“He must be a client of Greta and Jessica’s then.” Jessica was the editor Greta worked with. “Why? Do you want to meet him? I can tell Greta to introduce you.”
“No!” I said, shaking my head. “No, no. Not necessary. I was just curious.”
“Curious about what?” We turned to see Greta standing behind us, her cheeks pink from dancing, her adorable micro-bangs plastered to her forehead.
“Lior was asking about Graham…” She looked to me. “What’s his last name again?”
“Nothing,” I said just as Greta said, “Forrester!”
“That’s him,” Lane said.
“Oh! Is he here?” Greta asked, getting on her tiptoes and looking around. “That man is gorgeous. If I were into men, I’d climb him like a jungle gym and swing from his di—”
“Ack!” I said, pressing my hands to my ears.
“I would actually pay to see that,” Lane said, laughing.
“Do you want to meet him?” Greta asked me.
“No,” I said, firmly. “We’ve met. I was just surprised to see him here.”
“He’s been a client of Jessica’s forever. I worked on his last book, and I get to work on this next one too. He’s really lovely. Sucks what he’s been through. He doesn’t deserve any of it.”
I frowned. Was she talking about what he’d described in that damn article? I mean, it wasn’t that bad. I only yelled at him. He could take it. He was a grown man after all.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said and then sat down on one of the bar stools and fanned herself with a stack of cocktail napkins.
“Well, for starters there was his mom’s death a few years ago.
They were really close apparently. And then his wife, now ex-wife, cheated on him with one of her clients.
And then he had a run-in with some psycho lady in the park and… ”
I tuned her out. I did not need to hear one more person rehash my bad behavior.
Instead, I sipped my wine and thought about the other things she’d said.
About his mom and the ex-wife. Nadia. I’d met her a couple of times before she got into public relations and was still a hard-partying socialite and influencer.
I’d never found her very pleasant to be around.
She’d been catty and liked to wrangle secrets out of people and then they’d mysteriously end up in the gossip magazines.
When I’d heard she’d changed her tune and got into public relations, I’d been skeptical.
At one point she’d reached out to my agent in the hope of doing some work for me.
When I ran into her at an event where she was representing another model I knew, she asked if I’d reconsider working with her.
I’d acted like I had no idea what she was talking about and told her I left all those decisions up to my business manager who I knew really liked the person we’d been working with.
Truth be told, when I’d found out she’d inquired, I’d said hell no.
And then, when I’d heard she’d married none other than one of my favorite authors of all time, Graham Forrester, I hadn’t known what to believe anymore.
Surely someone like him wouldn’t be with someone like her unless she really had changed her ways.
When they’d divorced, I’d wondered what happened.
There had been surprisingly little in the papers.
Hearing now that she’d cheated on him made me sad.
Even if he had dragged me in an article, no one deserved that.
I glanced across the room again but he and the man he’d been talking to were gone.
“Hey,” Greta said, snapping her fingers in front of my face, her glittery nails flashing under the strobe lights. “We’re gonna go dance some more. You coming?”
I smiled and gave her a sticky hug. “I’m going to finish this glass of wine and then crawl back to my little corner of the bar and hang for a bit longer before heading home.
I have an early flight to Seattle tomorrow to see Addie.
But happiest birthday wishes to you. Let’s have lunch when I’m back in town. ”
I hugged Lane next and then waved as they disappeared into the crowd, Greta’s head bouncing to the beat.
Turning to face the bar again, I took a long, slow sip of my wine, watching the party-goers in the long mirror that faced the room.
“Hey there,” a male voice said, a warm hand sliding across my back. “Buy you another drink?”
I froze, my teeth clenching as I turned my head to take in a man I’d never seen before, his eyes staring south of my eyes.
“Please take your hand off of me,” I said, my voice measured as I tried to keep from making a scene at my friend’s party.
“Come on, love,” he said, leaning closer, hand tightening, his thumb rubbing against my ribcage. “You look lonely. I could keep you company.”
I just didn’t understand it. How did one see a person and just decide it was okay to put their hands on them?
Holding tight to my glass, I raised my foot and put it down on his, the sharp edge of my Jimmy Choo’s digging into the top of his shoe. His eyes widened and he tried to move away. But now I had him.
“I said,” I repeated. “Take your hand off me.”
This time he did as I said. I removed my foot, turned, and weaved through the crowd, heading to the end of the bar and furious that tears were welling in my eyes.
I stopped as two women blocked my path, then wound my way around them and stopped again when I saw the space I’d staked as my own for the night was occupied.
By Graham Forrester.
He looked up from his phone and stared back at me, his expression turning from a friendly smile, to one of resignment, to concern.
“Hey. Are you okay?” he asked, getting to his feet.
I nodded quickly, gave him a tight grin, and turned away. I had to get out of here. But as I took a step in the other direction, his hand caught my arm.
I spun around, glaring.
“Don’t,” I said
He raised his hands, as if in surrender.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just… Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to sit here? I can move.”
“I’m fine.” But as I said it, my eyes betrayed me, a tear falling to my cheek. I swiped it away angrily.
“Lior—”