“She almost smiled,” Phoebe says, ducking to climb in behind the wheel.
“That’s an exaggeration,” Deiss says, closing the door and sliding into the back. “She doesn’t even do that when I hand her a paycheck.”
I fight the urge to check my makeup in the visor mirror. I did the new, quicker version this morning because of our longer run. I could’ve stayed behind when Deiss left for work, but it seemed silly not to walk together.
“She smiled at me once,” I say.
Phoebe gasps dramatically. “No!”
“Did she really?” Deiss asks.
I nod. “I was coming back from the restroom, and a customer bumped into me and spilled their coffee all over me. It made her smile.”
Phoebe snorts. “So, she smiled at your pain.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. “She could’ve been happy I got burned or she could’ve been happy my favorite pink cotton half-sleeve was ruined.”
“Either way,” Deiss says, “it was Liv who prompted that joy.”
“Exactly.” I turn in my seat so I can see him. He’s leaning toward us from the hump in the middle, which is funny since he’s always been the king of shotgun. “I have brought sunshine and happiness to your employees. You thought you were doing me a favor by letting me use your laptop, but it is I who have turned out to be the true gift.”
“？’Tis she,” Phoebe says grandly.
“You actually look like sunshine today.” Deiss’s eyes scan me, taking in my orangey-yellow top, perfectly coordinated with the skirt that doesn’t completely cover my thighs while sitting. “But I guess your hair is always kind of sunshiny.”
He reaches forward absentmindedly and fingers a lock of it. His touch sends a tingle through my scalp that travels down my neck.
“Ironic, for the Ice Queen.” Phoebe flashes me a teasing grin. “Maybe you’re melting.”
“I’m trapped in vacation clothes.” Her words prompt a flush of pleasure that warms my cheeks. It’s a strange reaction, seeing as I’ve never minded the nickname. Have I? Ice Queen sounds formidable. Nobody would dare mess with an ice queen. “It’s a false illusion that will be rectified once I get my money back.”
“I like it,” Phoebe says.
To my surprise, I find myself going still, my attention focused on the back seat, even though I don’t allow my eyes to follow it. I can’t help wondering if Deiss feels the same. He says nothing, though—a lack of response I might feel more acutely if his fingers weren’t still in my hair.
* * *
—
If the goal is to pretend we’ve just happened to discover Mac at lunch with his agent, the effort is a spectacular failure. To be fair, that’s more Mac’s fault than ours. Actually, it’s entirely on him. At the sight of us, he jumps up and waves with both hands, his legs hitting the edge of the table, causing all the glasses and dishes to rattle. Every head in the restaurant swivels toward him, then to us.
This might be fine if it were a fast-casual chain, but it’s not. Bash Crispy is a place to see and be seen, and not one of the three of us has a résumé to justify this kind of attention. You wouldn’t know it, though, by the way Phoebe stretches to her full height and leads us through the crowded tables. For all its exclusivity, Bash Crispy is deliberately casual rather than fancy, with bright colors and music loud enough to obscure confidential conversations. In her mismatched layered patterns, exposing just the right amount of smooth, taut skin, Phoebe fits right in.
Beside me, Deiss appears impassive to the scene, like a movie star who’s shuttled from one event to the next and has long since resigned himself to inquisitive eyes following him. I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of freshly baked bread. A handsome man, a few tables over, gives me an appreciative smile, and I flash one back before deliberately breaking eye contact. He looks vaguely familiar, likely an actor of the D-list variety.
Mac grabs Phoebe in a hug that lifts her off the ground and causes the patrons at the next table to flinch as if worried he’ll sling her around like a wrecking ball. It’s not the most irrational fear. His lunch companion, a thin, overly groomed man with eyebrows so heavily plucked they look like they’ve been drawn on with a calligraphy pen, rises from his seat.
“You made it,” he says, overpronouncing each word.
“He’s pretending like he invited you,” Mac says, grinning with delight at the revelation, “but he didn’t.”