Chapter 3
Wine Down
Andi
Bridget’s apartment always smelled like expensive candles. Tonight it was something with vanilla and maybe sandalwood, mixing with the scent of pepperoni pizza from Santarpio’s—the good stuff, not the chain garbage.
“You look like hell,” Bridget announced when she opened the door, already holding two wine glasses and a bottle of pinot noir that definitely cost more than my usual seven-dollar special.
“Love you too.”
“I mean it. You’re working too hard—you look exhausted.” She handed me a glass and disappeared back into her kitchen.
I followed, letting the familiar warmth of the space settle over me.
She’d redesigned it years ago to look like something out of the 1930s—all vintage charm.
The fridge disguised as an old icebox, the gas stove with its double ovens designed to look like wood-burning compartments.
Every detail felt intentional, comforting.
Even the cabinets had that authentic milk-paint finish that probably cost a fortune to get right.
I’d always loved this room. There was something about sitting at her counter, surrounded by all that carefully curated nostalgia, that made everything feel a little more manageable.
Bridget had a gift for creating spaces that felt like stepping into another era—one where things moved slower and problems felt smaller.
“I do not look like hell. I look perfectly normal.”
“You absolutely do not look normal. I know when my best friend is exhausted and when her brain is working overtime.” She grabbed the pizza boxes from the counter—two large because Bridget believed in options—and nodded toward her living room. “Come on. Couch. Wine. Carbs.”
I settled into the oversized sectional that probably cost more than my rent, tucking my legs under me while Bridget set the boxes on the coffee table and flopped down beside me.
The living room was just as meticulously designed as the kitchen—velvet curtains, Art Deco lamps, a coffee table that looked like it belonged in a speakeasy.
“So what’s new in the glamorous life of coffee?” She poured wine into both glasses, topping mine off generously.
I took a bite of pizza. “Marcus has been seeing the same girl for a few weeks now, Riley. Think it might be a record. She got him to go to an art show.” I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “Mr. Commitment-phobic is going to find himself the first to fall but the last to know.”
“That seems adorable.”
“It is. He’s happy, so I’m happy for him.” I took a sip and another, the grease and cheese hitting exactly right. “What about you? How’s the design work going?”
“Exhausting. I’ve got a client who wants their entire brownstone to look like a Parisian apartment but refuses to spend Parisian apartment money.” She rolled her eyes. “Wants me to be a miracle worker.”
“People are the worst.”
“The actual worst. I showed them the budget breakdown yesterday, and I swear the husband actually gasped. Like, sir, you live in a three-million-dollar brownstone in Beacon Hill. Where did you think the money was going?”
“Did they fire you?”
“Not yet, but it’s coming. I can feel it.” She sighed. “Whatever. I’ve got three other projects lined up. Rich people with unrealistic expectations are a renewable resource in this city.”
I’d always admired that about Bridget—the way she could shrug off the bullshit and keep moving. She’d built her interior design business from nothing, one impossible client at a time, and now she was booked solid six months out.
“Speaking of which,” she said, shifting to face me more fully. “I need a favor.”
“Oh god. What?”
“Nothing crazy. I just need you to come with me to Harper’s basketball game this weekend.”
I blinked. “Harper plays basketball? She’s like ten. Do ten-year-olds play basketball?”
“Um. Yes. Where have you been?”
“Working? And I don’t have kids, so…”
“Fair.” She took a bite. “Anyway, it’s the last game of the season. End of year thing before summer break. My sister asked if I could pick her up afterward since she and Rick have some work thing they can’t get out of.”
“And you need me because...?”
“Because I’m getting there early to actually watch the game, and sitting alone makes me look like a creepy aunt. Plus—” she grinned wickedly. “The scenery is excellent.”
“Scenery?”
“Hot single dads, Andi. You’d be amazed how many attractive, age-appropriate men show up to these things. It’s like a buffet of emotionally available dilfs.”
I nearly choked on my wine. “Did you just say dilfs? I don’t think I’ve heard that one in a few years now.”
“I absolutely did. And I stand by it.” She was completely unrepentant.
“There’s this one dad—dark hair, stupid jawline, always wearing those expensive-casual button-downs that scream ‘I have a corner office’—he’s there every week with his daughter.
Single, based on the lack of ring and the general vibe. ”
“You’ve been scoping out dads at ten-year-old basketball games?”
“I’ve been observing. There’s a difference. And before you judge me, half the moms there are doing the same thing. It’s basically community service—we’re keeping each other entertained while children throw balls at hoops.”
I laughed despite myself. “You’re not even a mom! You’re Harper’s aunt.”
“I know! It’s even better! I can pick and choose when to go and have no remorse if something doesn’t pan out.”
“You’re absolutely terrible.”
“I’m efficient. And honestly, you should come just for the people-watching.
It’s better than reality TV.” She topped off both our glasses.
“Nine- and ten-year-olds playing basketball, with a ball that’s half their size, is by far the most adorable thing you’ll see.
Plus, her team might even win this one, which would be nice. She’s been working hard all season.”
“How is Harper? I haven’t seen her since—wow, when was it? Your birthday?”
“Yeah, back in March. She’s good. Growing like a weed, which my sister complains about constantly because apparently kids’ clothes are wicked expensive.
” Bridget’s face softened the way it always did when she talked about her niece.
“She’s been asking about you, actually. Wants to know when you’re coming to family dinner again. ”
“Your family dinners are terrifying. Your mom asks me why I’m not married yet. Remember when she suddenly had that guy there? What was his name? Will? Dill? Damn. I can’t remember. But it was awful.”
She dropped her head as she started rolling in laughter, her shoulders shaking. “Oh my God. I forgot about that! Gilbert. It was Gilbert! His dad lives a few doors down.”
“Freaking unacceptable. The guy was forty-five, less hair than my grandfather, and the comb-over to match. He talked about his ex leaving him three years ago, the entire time!”
Bridget was completely unhelpful and unrepentant on her mom’s behalf as she laughed until she cried. Settling down, she finally caught her breath and said, “Okay, okay. I know. Awful. But seriously, Harper misses you. She thinks you’re cooler than me.”
“I’m definitely not cooler than you.”
“I mean. Yeah, *I *know this. She does not, however. So the best way to help her see how uncool you are is to come around more. Let’s start with her game!”
I smiled at that. Harper was a sweet kid—all energy and elbows, with Bridget’s sharp wit and her sister Brianna’s athletic genes.
Bridget and I have been friends since we were practically in diapers, so I’ve been around for most of Harper’s life, but not as often over the last couple of years while I got the shop up and running.
“Alright, fine. I’ll come to the game.”
“Excellent,” Bridget settled back into the couch, looking pleased with herself. “Plus, who knows? Maybe you’ll meet someone. Low-pressure, public place, built-in conversation starter if any of those dads try to talk to you.”
I opened my mouth to make some excuse, but then her comment about hot guys lodged in my brain and I heard myself saying, “Speaking of hot guys...”
Bridget’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Yes! You’ve got a story. I can see it in your eyes! Tell me everything.”
“It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”
“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t have brought it up. Spill.”
I took a long sip of wine, debating. But this was Bridget. If I couldn’t tell her, who could I tell?
“Okay. So there was this guy. Ridiculously good-looking. Like, stupidly hot. The kind of guy who probably has never been told no in his entire life.”
“I’m listening.”
“He walked past The Grind’s window and we just—we locked eyes through the glass. And I swear by all that’s holy, Bridge, the world stopped. I know how that sounds, but it actually stopped.”
“Holy shit.”
“Right? And then he just... kept walking. I figured that was it, you know? Just one of those random city moments that doesn’t mean anything.”
“But?”
“But then he came in. Ordered coffee, bought a muffin, tipped like he was trying to fund my retirement.”
Bridget leaned forward, her wineglass tilting precariously in her hand. “And?”
“And... nothing. He left.” I traced the rim of my glass with my fingertip, avoiding her gaze.
“That’s it? No number? No name?” She tucked her legs under her on the couch, leaning closer.“Nope. Nada.” I shrugged, trying to seem more nonchalant than I felt.“You made him nervous. Too hot for him, clearly.” She nudged my knee with her foot, grinning.
I felt my face heat up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Shut up. You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that. I’ve watched enough men fumble their way through attraction to recognize the signs.” She grabbed another slice. “What did he look like? Besides ridiculously hot.”
“Tall. Dark hair. One of those faces that’s almost too perfect, you know? Too hot. Who wants to keep up with that level of hot?” I could feel myself getting flustered just thinking about him. “But—man, can’t hurt to just imagine.”
“So, he had that corner office energy,” Bridget said knowingly. “I’m telling you, there’s a specific level of hot that comes with that level of responsibility. You can see it in the shoulders.”
I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms. “Since when are you an expert on the male physique?”
“Girl!” Bridget leaned back dramatically, hand pressed to her chest. “I’ve always been an expert. I just keep it a secret so you don’t try to make me abuse it.” She grinned at my scoff, swirling the wine in her glass before taking another sip.
I threw a napkin at her. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m observant. There’s a difference.” She grabbed the wine bottle and topped us both off again. “So what are you going to do about Coffee Shop Hottie?”
“Nothing. What can I do? Wait for him to come back and hope I don’t spill something on him?” I slumped back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling.
“You could ask Marcus to get his number next time.” Bridget leaned forward, pizza forgotten on her plate.
“Absolutely not.” I sat up straight, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my glass. “I left middle school behind decades ago, thank you very much.”
“You could accidentally write your number on his cup.” She wiggled her eyebrows, demonstrating the motion of writing with her finger in the air.
“I’m not sixteen either, Bridge.” I rolled my eyes and took another sip of wine to hide my embarrassed smile.
“No, you’ve passed thirty already. You need to get a move on, or you’re going to end up like my aunt Gladys—alone, making carrot cake with chocolate frosting, and watching Jeopardy reruns!
Stop overthinking this. If he’s into you, he’ll come back.
And when he does, you’re going to actually flirt instead of just taking his order. ”
“I don’t know how to flirt.”
“Everyone knows how to flirt. You just smile, make eye contact, and don’t run away the second he looks at you.” She pointed her pizza at me. “Which is exactly what you’re going to practice this weekend.”
“At a kid’s basketball game?”
“Why not? Low stakes, public place, built-in conversation starter if any of those dads try to talk to you.” She grinned. “Then, when Mr. Coffee-hottie comes back in, you’ll be ready for him.”
My heart did a stupid little flip at the thought, which I immediately squashed. “Yeah, right. Fine. I’ll come.”
Bridget raised her glass in victory, and I clinked mine against it, already wondering what I’d just agreed to. But that’s what best friends were for—dragging you to things you’d never do on your own.