“Nope. Just be normal, and back me up any time I say something bizarre.”
“I have plenty of experience with that.” I roll my eyes, and she finally seems to register my outfit, giving me a once-over. “What are you wearing?”
“You don’t like it?” I ask, striking a pose.
Despite feeling as out of place as Elle Woods in a Playboy bunny costume, I actually don’t mind tonight’s getup: a blue tweed pencil skirt paired with a sleeveless white silk blouse that ties at the neck. And pumps, of course, because: Wear high heels as often as possible—they’re sexier! Armed with my Brigitte Bardot–inspired hair （per Gran’s latest advice: “Tease it to Jesus!”）， I’m ready. Nat deemed the look “very Grace Kelly in Rear Window.” I called it “secretarial chic.”
“You look like a librarian.” She slurps her martini.
“Thanks a lot.” I smooth the bow at my throat, fingering the antique gold-and-rhinestone brooch I dug out of my jewelry box. It’s a piece I admired as a teenager on Gran, who unpinned it from her sweater and gifted it to me on the spot.
I stroke it now like a talisman. “Anyway, that’s fine, because I don’t want to give him any ideas.”
“Well, you’ve succeeded. A handmaid shows more skin.”
I’m swatting her when I see Jack duck through the door. “Crap, there he is.” I throw my shoulders back, slide on a smile, and begin my mental metamorphosis into Betty.
“That’s Jack? Whoa, he’s way better-looking than you let on.”
Gah. “Not you too! Look, just remember that he’s built his entire professional career on demeaning and degrading women.” I catch his eye and wave him over.
“I think I might let him degrade me.”
“Please act normal,” I hiss through clenched teeth as he cuts his way through the crowd.
“I hardly think I’m the one who needs to be reminded to act normal,” she mutters under her breath just as he reaches us.
“Ladies,” Jack says in greeting, before turning the full force of his smile on me. “Cassidy. It’s great to see you.” I find myself drawn into a hug, and before I can pull away, he presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Watch out, I just blew past first base,” he murmurs in my ear, and I barely have a chance to react before he’s reaching a hand out to my sister. “You must be Christine?”
“That’s me,” she says, accepting his handshake. “And my husband Greg is—”
“Right here!” Greg pops up from behind us and hands off my drink. “Great to meet you. I’m a big fan,” he says, vigorously pumping Jack’s hand. I shoot him a warning look, which he expressly ignores. “I can’t believe you’re not at Yankees-Mets tonight.”
I blink at them both for a moment, confused, before connecting the dots. “Oh, shoot—I didn’t realize there was a game tonight. Is it a problem that you’re missing it?” Betty is nothing if not supportive of her man’s job. Remember: His career comes first!
“Nah, I got a better offer.” He throws me a wink.
I squirm inside my skin, flustered by his overt flirting . . . or maybe it’s that I can feel Christine’s eyes on me, studying my body language like a forensic psychologist. To distract myself, I take a deep swallow of my drink—then immediately start coughing, nearly spitting it all back out. Good lord, this is strong. It tastes like battery acid. With a hint of orange.
Jack looks concerned. “Are you okay?”
My eyes are stinging. “Oh, fine,” I manage to splutter, before lightning strikes. “Actually, you know what? I got this for you.” Two birds, one stone.
His eyebrows lift. “For me?”
Always have a drink waiting when he walks in. After a hard day’s work, he’ll appreciate you anticipating his needs.
“Yeah, you know—you’ve had a long day, I’m sure you could use a drink. You like bourbon, right?” I present it to him as earnestly as an engagement ring.
He blinks at me, a twelve-point buck frozen in headlights. “I don’t want to take your drink,” he protests, casting Greg an uneasy glance. “I’ll just order something once we sit down.”
“No no, I insist. Really.” I hold it out until he’s reluctantly forced to take it.
I watch the internal battle play out on his face before etiquette wins out. “Alright. Well, thank you very much,” he says, raising the glass in cheers and taking a hearty swig. Better him than me.
“Would you look at that? How come you never have a drink waiting for me?” Greg ribs Christine.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Um, maybe because you get home from work before I do? Why don’t you ever have a drink waiting for me?”
There’s an awkward pause. “Uh . . . now that we’re all here, why don’t we go see if our table is ready?” Greg suggests brightly. “Can I carry your purse for you, honey?”
He throws a pained Help! look over his shoulder as he steers Christine toward the host’s stand, and Jack laughs quietly as we follow a few paces behind them.
“Told you they’re entertaining.”
“You did. They seem great, though.” He leads me forward with a hand to my back, then dips his head toward mine. “You look very nice tonight.”
Maybe he has a naughty librarian fetish. “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
It’s an understatement. He’s dressed similarly to how he was at the bar that first night, in full business attire: white button-down, perfectly coordinated striped tie, and a steel-gray suit that’s cut as impeccably as his hair. With his high-voltage smile and godlike bone structure, he’s easily the best-looking guy in this restaurant. Maybe for miles.
He has an ugly soul, I remind myself.
“I didn’t picture Brawler as the type of office where people dress up for work,” I confess as we navigate our way through the restaurant’s main dining room. In my mind, Brawler’s headquarters are akin to a grimy frat house, full of degenerate men in shapeless hoodies and sporting a sticky, beer-stained floor.
“It isn’t, but these days I’m constantly in meetings with investors and finance people,” he says as we arrive at our table. “Not exactly a jeans crowd.” I thank him as he pulls out my chair, ending up with him on my left and Christine to my right.
As everyone gets seated and settled I take a look around the restaurant, appreciating the vibe of the place, the decor a blend of modern industrial and traditional steakhouse. There’s exposed brick and funky oversized chandeliers made of metal and glass, but the comfy leather chairs and moody lighting ensure the overall feel is cozy, not cold.
“Jack, thanks so much for getting us the reservation here,” Christine says, accepting a menu from the hostess. “I feel very VIP.”
“It’s no big deal,” Jack says, brushing off the praise. “A friend of a friend runs the parent restaurant group. All I did was make a phone call.”
This time I’m the one studiously ignoring the pointed looks Greg’s beaming across the table. Alright, I get it. The man has access to perks.