“Hmm. Can I see your last text conversation?”
“No, you may not!” I cried, offended.The audacity of this guy.
“Okay, okay. Without anycontext, it’s hard for me to give advice.”
“I didn’t even ask you for—!” I considered him for a moment. He was so not my type—not much fashion sense, certainly not theDirty Dancing: Havana Nightstype, probably had never partied on a boat in his life—but he was objectively handsome and clearly had no trouble dating gorgeous women. Plus, he apparently had more depth than I had given him credit for. I felt a new, inexplicable kinship with him after learning about Pageant. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself handing him my phone, the conversation with Stephen open on the screen. “Fine. But no scrolling back.”
Christopher snorted. “‘Hot guy from holiday party’? That’s his name?”
I’d forgotten that little detail.
“I hate to think what you’d label me as if you had my number.” He began reading the messages.
Probably something like “Tech bro who insulted my family after we served you a lovely dinner in our home.” My smile turned brittle at the memory.
“No scrolling,” I warned as his finger hovered over the screen.
“All right.” He handed it back to me. “So, you asked him if he was free at all this weekend, and he said he’d check and get back to you. Then a few hours later you said”—Christopher’s mouth twitched—“if you don’t answer for a while it’s because you’re at a dinner full of sweaty nerds in bad suits patting themselves on the back for doing the bare minimum.”
I had thought that was sort of funny. But Stephen hadn’t even responded.
“No response,” Christopher added unnecessarily.
“Correct.”
“I would say you should let him sweat a little bit. Stop texting him, at least until he texts you first.”
I rolled my eyes. “Are you saying play hard to get?”
“I suppose, yeah. If you stop popping up in his daily life with easy little messages, he’ll be forced to give more thought to how he interacts with you.”
“And what if he doesn’t? What if he just forgets I exist?”
“Trust me, he won’t.” And I swear to God, Christopher Butkus’s eyes roved from my face downward, until he seemed to catch himself, swilling down the last of his whiskey. The exposed skin of my chest and neck erupted in goose bumps.Not now, girls, I mentally chided my ovaries.This is not the time or the place—or the man.
“So… stop texting him. That is your great advice.”
“And it wouldn’t hurt to show off the times you’re having funwithout him. Like now, for instance. You could add this party to your Instagram story.”
I wrinkled my nose. “He doesn’t follow me on Instagram.”
Christopher sucked in his breath. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell he thought it was a bad sign too.
“Okay, then maybe just post it instead. He can see that at any time in case he searches for you when you stop texting him.” He was doing it again! Broadcasting the fact that he knew my profile was public. “Here, I’ll take one of you now.” He reached for my phone.
“What? Really?”
“Yeah, come on, you look great.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” I posed with my wineglass at a jaunty angle.
“Turn toward me a little bit… Perfect.” Christopher snapped a photo and returned my phone.
“Thanks.” I glanced at it and felt an instant lurch of surprise. I’d expected to see a glazed smile as I posed in front of a dull, work event backdrop—but I was glowing. There was a glimmer in my eye and a healthy flush in my cheeks. Like the photographer brought out this merriment in me. I looked up at him, my lips parting to say—I wasn’t sure what.
“We could take a—” Christopher began, but we were interrupted by a young woman with chic bangs.
“Rachel Weiss? I finally found you! I’m a reporter for theSeattle Times, doing a story on this event. Do you mind if I take your picture and ask you a few questions?”
