Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
They’re both looking at me expectantly, and the alarm bells in my head are in full siren mode now, especially when I hear Feinstein sniff behind me, all the judgment in the world infused into the tiny sound.
I hear Sam sigh, and one of the blondes takes pity on me, though not in a way that’s remotely helpful.
“It’s Kara, silly!” she says, stepping toward me and wrapping an arm around my neck.
My options aren’t good. I can let my arms dangle . . . awkward. I can push her away . . . rude. I can hug her back . . .
I go with this one, my arm sliding around her waist and giving what I hope is a friendly, platonic squeeze in greeting. “Of course.”
I start to pull back, or at least try to, but she clings, turning toward my bosses and Adam Feinstein and, in a scene right out of my nightmares, keeps speaking.
“How do you guys know Matt?”
Samantha’s smile is tight. “We work together.”
“They’re my bosses,” I’m quick to add, hoping it’ll cue Kara in to shutting her mouth or at least filtering what she says next.
No such luck.
“Oh, how cool!” Kara gushes. “Matt and I use to party together. Oh my gosh, I’m being so rude.” Kara pulls back, belatedly remembering her companion. “Guys, this is my friend Robin.”
Robin’s smile is as tight as Samantha’s. “Matt and I have met.”
Kara looks at her friend in surprise, then up at me, her expression visibly cooling as she puts the pieces together.
Come on, ladies. It’s been years, and we slept together once. Surely neither of them has been holding on to the delusion that we were exclusive . . .
I resist the urge to tug at the collar of my shirt as it suddenly occurs to me that my reputation is in so much more need of rehab than I ever realized.
I try to pull my arm away from Kara under the guise of looking at my watch. “You know, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m actually meeting someone—”
“There you are!”
I never thought Sabrina Cross’s sultry voice could cause anything other than agitation and arousal, but today, the sound of her low alto brings something else:
Relief.
I turn toward her, but before I can figure out how to explain the mess I’ve gotten myself into and subtly beg for help, she’s taken control of the situation.
With a friendly smile, she touches Robin’s arm. “Hi, are you Kara?”
“No, she is,” Robin says with a stiff nod toward her friend.
“Ah, well, the hostess has been looking for you,” Sabrina says. Then she lowers her voice. “I’d get on it if I were you. I’ve found this place will only hold your reservations for a hot minute before clearing you off the list for walk-ins.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks,” Robin says, looking at the hostess, then at her friend. “Kara. Let’s go.”
Kara reluctantly releases my arm, and the second she does, Sabrina’s there, somehow nudging the other woman aside without actually touching her. After a last backward glance my way, Kara follows her friend to the waiting hostess.
Just like that, the first of my problems is handled.
“So sorry I’m late,” Sabrina says, running an arm intimately over my biceps, then lifting to brush her lips over mine. “I couldn’t get a cab for the life of me—” Sabrina breaks off, as though just registering we’re not alone. “Oh my gosh! Samantha. Sam. How are you guys?”
She moves past me, doing a smooth air-kiss exchange with Samantha, smiling broadly at Sam.
“I haven’t seen you since . . . Oh, what fund-raiser was that? Well, it doesn’t matter. So wonderful to see you both.”
She keeps chatting on, somehow managing to be captivating not annoying, and I practically see the ice melt off the higher-ups, their shoulders relaxing.
“Thanks so much for that book recommendation,” Samantha is telling Sabrina. “My book club deemed it the best one we’ve read all year and absolutely insisted you consider joining our group.”
The thought of Sabrina and my boss’s boss in a book club together is mildly terrifying, but I’m too relieved to be anything but grateful at the ease with which Sabrina’s handled The Sams.
Adam Feinstein is probably a lost cause, but . . .
Sabrina lets out a little gasp of pleasure. “Mr. Feinstein, is that you?” She taps her hand against the man’s knee as he sits on the barstool, the gesture playful and familiar.
I brace, expecting him to glower at her, but instead he’s grinning broadly.
“Look at you, sitting all quiet in the corner,” she says, leaning in to peck his cheek. “Does Geraldine know you’re brunching without her?”
Geraldine? Who the hell is Geraldine?
Feinstein adjusts his glasses with a smile. “She’s visiting her sister in Fort Lauderdale this weekend. The Sams were kind enough to let me be a third wheel.”