She waves me off. “Relax. Her back is to us.”
Emboldened by that, I peek my head above the booth just enough to catch a glimpse. From my angle, I can see the barest hint of her profile, her phone next to her on the bar, and her focus on a little sketchbook.
A touch of satisfaction loosens my shoulders. I knew I wasn't wrong when I clocked her for an artistic type.
“I adore that dress,” Lucy says. My attention quickly snaps back to the problem at hand.
“Ok, enough.” I reach across the table and grab Lucy's chin to physically remove her focus from Toni.
She shoos me off.
Oliver looks at his phone. “She's either early or whoever she's meeting is late.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I ask.
“It's just after eight. So if they were meeting at eight thirty, she's wicked early, and if not-” he shrugs.
“It doesn't matter, can we go?”
“No!” Lucy turns her attention back to me. “I don't want to just hang out at the bar because you or all of us will inevitably be sucked into working and we are supposed to be having a fun night.”
I groan.
“Drama queen,” Oliver scolds.
“I think I'll go say hi,” Lucy announces.
I latch onto her wrist, moving so fast the force of it shakes the table. “I will give you a hundred dollars right now if you don't.” I was pretty sure I had that in my wallet anyway.
“I'm offended you assume I can be bought.”
“And all my tips from tonight.”
“I bet you could get him up to three hundred plus tips,” Oliver says, smugly popping a piece of chicken in his mouth.
“Lucy, please,” I beg.
She pats my cheek. “Those puppy eyes don't work on me. Besides, this has nothing to do with you.” She plucks my hand from her wrist. “She's new in town and has clearly been stood up. I'm going to be a good neighbor and find out where she got that dress.”
With a wink, she saunters off to ruin my night.
“I'm leaving,” I announce the moment Lucy taps Toni on the shoulder.
“You are not.” Oliver stands, blocking my path to freedom.
“Just meet me at the bar.” I try to push past him, but he lays a hand on my chest, pushing me back. “Oli?—”
Plenty of folks would look at the two of us and place their bets on me in a fight. I'm a couple inches taller and, thanks more to genetics than true effort on my part, built like a brick shithouse. But they'd be wrong. Oliver Rosadois all lean muscle and intention. Cards down, I'd pick him over me easy, especially when he's got that look on his face.
“Sit. Down,” he says, the teacher voice almost working on me.
“I can't do this.” I sound desperate. I know I do. I can't be bothered to care as senseless panic claws at my chest.
His expression softens. “You don't have to do anything. Just be open to the possibility that something good could happen here. That's all.”
“I am open. It's just?—”
“You're not.”
