She straightened her posture—Stefania would never cower from nerves—determined to find someone to approach. But seconds turned into minutes, and she was just about to say fuck it, order a tequila for herself, and force Ren to go talk to that curvy goddess by the pool table, when she saw her.
A redhead.
Standing by the jukebox, talking to a white guy with glasses and a trimmed beard. Stevie watched them for a moment, looking for signs that they were together, but the guy looked a bit rumpled, like he’d just gotten out of bed, and the woman was definitely looking out at the crowd with a tilt to her head.
Stevie recognized that tilt. The I’m interested tilt. The What have we here tilt. Not that she was such a genius at reading body language. She simply had a feeling that the guy was sort of like Stevie’s Ren—a wingperson, moral support.
“Ren,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, like it was a secret. “The redhead by the jukebox. What do you think?”
Ren straightened and gazed through the crowd, eyes widening when they landed on their mark. “Nice.”
“You think she’s here with him?” Stevie asked.
“Nah,” Ren said. “She looks hungry.”
Stevie smiled, thrilled she’d actually gotten that one right. Now all she had to do was . . .
Shit.
She actually had to do this.
She took a few deep breaths, observing the woman as she let Stefania, Sexy Wonder-Thespian, seep into her bones. The redhead was white, her skin so pale it looked nearly blue underneath the dim lighting. She had little braids plaited throughout her long hair, freckles over much of her face. She wore a cropped green sweater and tight jeans, but only about an inch of her stomach was showing. Stevie started to feel self-conscious about her shirt again but forced herself back into character.
Stefania wasn’t self-conscious.
Stefania was a queer marvel.
A gift to sapphics everywhere.
A genius in bed.
A—
“You’re doing that thing again, aren’t you?” Ren asked.
Stevie blinked her reality back into focus. “Huh?”
“You’re pretending you’re someone else.” Ren narrowed their eyes.
“I’m . . . I’m just doing a little mental exercise to boost my courage,” Stevie said. She knew it was weird, trying to become a fictional character off the stage, but it worked for her. Besides, her name was Stefania. She was an actor. “Do you want me to go hit on that woman or not?”
Ren presented their hands in surrender. “Fine. Do what you gotta do, I guess.”
Stevie frowned at Ren’s disapproving tone, but she shook it off. She needed this. Needed a night free of being . . . well, herself.
She cleared her throat. Fiddled with her fringe. She took a deep, calming breath. She took one step toward the redhead and froze.
Because the redhead was already walking across the room, her eyes fixed on Stevie.
CHAPTER FIVE
SIMON WAS BEING a terrible wingman. On the phone, he’d failed to mention that Iris had in fact woken him up and, while he’d dutifully gotten dressed, and Emery hadn’t complained when Simon left them in their bed to come out to a queer club with Iris—Emery knew Iris well enough by now to think nothing of it—Simon was less than energetic once they’d arrived at Lush.
Luckily, Iris didn’t need much help finding someone she liked.
“Okay, one o’clock,” she said. “The person with the shaggy curls and plaid pants.”
“Lovely,” Simon said, yawning.
“Jesus, Simon, seriously?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been up late the past week working on my book, and—”
“Oh, you poor New York Times bestseller.”
Simon had written a book a few years ago, The Remembrances, that had done extremely well, earning him enough to write full-time and be an insufferable, if loveable, ass about it. He’d finally turned in his second novel to his editor—a year after the first one debuted—and he was currently hard at work on his third. Bisexual himself, his stories were chock-full of queer characters, and Iris, despite her general disdain for literary fiction, really loved his writing.
“If it makes you feel any better, it’s going horribly,” he said.
“A bit,” she said, grinning. “And same.”
“Still no ideas?” he asked.
“Nothing I’d pull off a shelf. I think I spent all the romance from my past relationships on my first book. I’ve got nothing, feel nothing. Maybe I should write horror.”
“Okay, calm down,” Simon said. “You’re good at romance. Your writing is funny and sexy and emotional. You just need . . . I don’t know. Have you considered going on an actual date? Getting some real romance into the mix?”
“Hell no.”
“Iris. Jesus. You’re like the Scrooge of true love.”
“Bah humbug.”
“Scrooge caved in the end, you know. His heart grew three sizes or whatever.”
Iris laughed. “That’s the Grinch.”
“Potatoes, potahtoes,” Simon said, sliding his glasses down his nose so he could properly glare at her.
Iris sighed and motioned toward the writhing bodies on the dance floor. “This works for me, okay? I don’t want to complicate things.”
“And by things, you mean your heart.”
She ignored that. “Fiona thinks I need to do something else to get some space from my book. Like a pottery class or some shit, I don’t know.”
“That’s actually solid advice.”
“I know. Which is exactly why I’m here.”
“So . . . random sex with a stranger is creative?”
“It is the way I do it,” Iris said.
Simon laughed, his cheeks going a bit red. “Anyway,” he said, nodding toward Shaggy Curls. “She’s cute. Go for it.”
Iris nodded and had just started to turn away when he grabbed her hand.
“One question,” he said, his tone soft, concerned, and Iris knew exactly what was coming.
“I’m fine,” she said.
He lifted his brows, hazel eyes doubtful from behind his glasses.
“I am,” she said. “I just . . . my mom tried to set me up again. With a health fanatic.”
“Yikes,” Simon said. “Is your mother aware of how many bags of salt and vinegar chips you consume a week?”
“Exactly,” she said. “Not exactly my type. And then . . .” She inhaled, steadied her voice. “My ex, Grant, is getting married, which is totally fine and I’m happy for him, but my family . . . well, they just . . . they’re . . .”
“They’re being assholes about it,” he said.
She nodded. “They really loved Grant.”
He squeezed her shoulder and she leaned into him for a second.
“Hence,” she said, straightening up and nodding toward the woman, who was talking to an Asian person in a flawless gray suit and heels Iris had to remember to tell Astrid about. “I just need to let off a little steam.”
“Okay,” Simon said. “Understandable. But you know there are other ways, right? Ice cream? Watching rom-coms? A manicure?”
Iris laughed. “I’ll do all of that tomorrow.”