Chapter 10
DESIREE
Creek Wall is the kind of place that makes people lower their conversations without realizing they’ve done it, the kind of expensive hush that demands you act like you’ve been somewhere before.
The lounge sits behind smoked glass and heavy doors, all dark wood, bronze fixtures, and low cognac-colored light.
Servers move between tables with trays balanced at shoulder height, slipping around conversations they’re paid not to hear.
Along the back wall, bottles glow beneath the bar, brown liquor looking like somebody bottled bad decisions and charged thirty dollars a pour.
It’s exactly the kind of place Lizzie would choose when she’s trying to act like this isn’t a big deal.
Which means it is.
I step away from the hostess stand and glance toward the bar, expecting to find my best friend posted up with a drink, pretending she hasn’t checked her lipstick twice and rehearsed how casual she’s going to sound when she introduces me to Fredrick.
She isn’t alone.
She’s laughing, but it’s not the one I’m used to.
Not the loud one that gets away from her.
Not the dry one she uses when she’s judging somebody and pretending she’s not.
This one is softer and too open, the kind of laugh that slips out of a woman before she remembers she was trying to be careful.
It makes me stop, because Lizzie hasn’t sounded that unprotected in years.
The hostess pulls me from my thoughts, asking if I need help finding my party.
“No, I see her, thank you,” I say, forcing my feet to move before the girl thinks I’ve lost my way.
She’s near the far end of the lounge in that rust-colored dress she texted me three pictures of before choosing the first one anyway.
Gold-studded earrings. Cute bangs with a messy bun.
One hand around a cocktail she’s not drinking because all her focus is on the man beside her, who I assume is Mr. Fredrick.
He’s turned away from me, but even from here, he looks clean-cut.
Khaki jacket. Nice shoulders. One hand on the bar, the other resting at Lizzie’s waist. Not possessive enough to make a show of it, but familiar.
Comfortable. He’s handling her with an ease that doesn’t feel earned yet, like he’s already convinced her she’s safe there.
The man beside her turns slightly, not enough for me to see his full face. Just enough for the light to catch the side of his cheek, the line of his mouth, the angle of his profile.
My steps slow just a little.
Because there is something familiar there.
Something I don’t like.
I tell myself not to start connecting things in a room I just walked into. A man can have a nice jacket, a clean profile, and good posture without my mind dragging him into places he does not belong.
Lizzie deserves me walking over there with a real smile, giving Fredrick a real chance, and me asking the kind of questions a best friend asks when she wants to make sure the man sitting beside her girl knows he has been trusted with somebody important.
I make myself keep walking.
Then Lizzie sees me.
Her smile opens bright and proud. My girl’s happy standing there in that rust-colored dress, holding on to a cocktail she forgot to drink, looking like she has finally let herself want something without apologizing for it first. And she looks damn good.
“Desi!” she calls, lifting one hand.
I lift mine back, the smile on my lips not quite reaching my eyes.
The man beside her turns fully.
And the room gives me the one answer I did not want.
Bryce motherfuckin’ Kinsley.