Stephen runs his hand down the length of his bright red tie and black pinstripe vest, and then tips his low-ball glass toward me. “Hey there, Ava. Take a load off.” He reclines against the sofa, nestling in and making himself at home. “This is shaping up to be a really accommodating week.”
The sofa directly opposite them is vacant other than people leaning against the back of it, so I step away from Lucky’s hand on my waist to sit down. Setting my drink on the center coffee table, I find myself sitting stiffly with my arms crossed over my lap as though I’m attempting to hide my “traveling clothes” from all these gussied-up people. Per usual, I dressed for comfort on the plane and the hot, humid New Orleans climate, so I’m wearing a plain, light pink tank-top and cropped jeans with sneakers.
“When, um,” I start to say, hoping I won’t have to carry the conversation, “when did y’all get in?”
“Oh my heavens, listen to that!” Pearl chortles, fluffing the boa again. “I love that you sayy’all.” She turns to the redhead, who has now produced a tube of lip gloss and is now touching up Pearl’s mouth. “Nobody saysy’allwhere I live in California.”
Lucky sits on the sofa next to me—verynext to me—and crosses his ankle over his knee in my direction. “It’s adorable, isn’t it?” He leans forward to pick up my drink and hands it to me. “Everybody around here saysy’all, and I love it.”
I manage a laugh that sounds normal and not completely put on. “Yeah, it’s a southern thing, I guess.”
“Yeah, back in Pittsburg, we sometimes sayyinz,” Stephen says with a chuckle, lifting his glass again. “And I have to admit, it doesn’t exactly have the same charm.”
“The word ‘y’all’especiallyhas charm,” Pearl chimes in again. She carefully lifts her very-full martini to her lips and takes a tiny sip. After swallowing, she smacks her lips exuberantly. “Especially when such a pretty girl says it.”
“I concur,” Lucky says, draping his arm along the back of the sofa behind me.
I death-grip my Sazerac as I take alongdrink of it, because I’m feelingextremelyuptight. My mind will not shut up.
What’s with all of these people calling mepretty?
I can count onone handthe number of times anyone has called mepretty.
Why is everyone so much more at ease than me?
Are they all just drunk already, or am I reallythatawkward that I can’t even be comfortable around people I don’t know?
This must be why Roger doesn’t want me being an onsite project manager. I have no idea how to act around people who aren’tZoey, my perpetual security blanket.
But most of all,is Lucky De Luca hitting on me?
Why is he sitting so close to me, andwhyis he sort of putting his arm around me?
Why would he hit onme?
Is this just the way he is with everybody like that girl said at the concert?
Am I reading this all wrong just like when I thought he was trying to kiss me?
I keep drinking my Sazerac until there’s only about a quarter of it left.
“Patrick makes a mean Sazerac, don’t he?” Lucky breaks through my thoughts, his head turned all the way toward me.
I turn to look at him.
Why does that sound like an accusation?
I lift my shoulders. “It is good, but I’ve never had one before.”
A quick smile tugs the corners of his mouth. “He’s a good guy. Hell of a drummer.”
I rack my brain for something conversational to say. “Yeah, he’s been with you for a long time.”
Lucky offers a sage nod, keeping his gaze trained on my face. “Since almost the very beginning. We have a tendency to lock antlers sometimes, but we always kiss and make up.”
I might be tipsy from my drink already because the mental picture of Lucky and Patrick kissing each other makes me giggle.
A wide grin stretches across Lucky’s face. “You think that’s funny, Ava?”
