I beam, tucking my phone back into my clutch just as it buzzes against my thigh.
Logan:You there yet?
Me:Yep. VIP booth. Tiara deployed. Cake delivered. Situation sparkly.
The prosecco is already high in my bloodstream, but it’s nothing compared to the warm flip in my chest when I see his name.
Across the table, Zoe catches my eye, her grin sharp and conspiratorial. Weeks ago, after the Yoni lesson I subjected her to, we organized this. Tonight, it’s happening.
Tamara shifts closer, her sequined sleeve flashing under the lights as she tips her glass toward us in silent confirmation.
“Charlie has no idea,” Zoe murmurs, eyes glittering as we watch Charlie laugh with Claire.
“Which is exactly the point,” I say, taking another sip of my cocktail.
Tamara grins, sequins flashing under the neon. “We’re gonna ABBA-solutely blow her away.”
I choke on a laugh, pressing a hand to my mouth. “We’re gonna ABBA-serenade her.”
“We’re gonna ABBA-ssassinateher,” Zoe corrects, wicked grin widening.
Tamara giggles into her drink, and across the table, Charlie just tilts her head, catching us mid-conspiracy again. “What are you three plotting?”
“Nothing,” we chime in unison, far too quickly.
She narrows her eyes, but lets it go, basking in the attention, as she should.
Another buzz from my phone. I slip it open under the table.
Logan:How many drinks?
Me:Two. Why, you counting?
Logan:Just making sure my girlfriend is okay
I snort into my straw. The girls give me side-eyes, but I just wave them off, warmth blooming hotter than the prosecco in thiscocktail. Even from his own night out, he’s a tether, solid and reliable, where I’m all fizz and sequins.
Zoe raises her glass, eyes on me like she knows I’m somewhere else for a second, then hums the opening bars ofSuper Trouperunder her breath. Tamara tips her glass toward us in silent agreement, and I clink my glass to theirs, complicit in the crime.
Operation Super Trouper is officially locked with the DJ. We just need to wait for our turn on stage.
Another round arrives, and Zoe’s teaching us some kind of unhinged toast in bad Italian when my phone lights up again.
Logan:You good?
Me:More than good. Glitter in my veins. Sequins on my body.
Logan:…
Me:Don’t tell me you’re not picturing it.
Logan:Picturing those sequins comingoffyour body later, actually.
Me:Meanwhile, I’m picturing yourhands.
Image received:It'sLogan’s hand, broad and veined, sprawled over his thigh in ripped jeans, with absolutely no caption.
My knees knock the underside of the table, and I clutch the phone to my chest, half-shrieking into my drink.
