The corners of his mouth quirk upwards, and I glimpse a softening in his eyes before his head lowers. “I hear that a lot.”
“I’ll bet you do,” I mutter, giving a short laugh. “There’ll be a second ticket, of course. For your girlfriend… boyfriend… significant other person.” I need to stop talking now. I don’t care who he brings—so long as he stays away from me.
“How gender non-specific of you,” he says with a smirk. “None of my others have any significance, but I’m totally gay in case you were wondering. I do have a friend who’s pissed at me, though,” he continues without pausing for breath. “He’s a fan, so a concert ticket could go a long way towards smoothing things over.”
That would be the very irate Rodney from his earlier phone call. “Sounded to me like you need to make it up to your friendandhis boyfriend,” I suggest. “How about I put aside three tickets. That way you can get back into the good graces of both your friends, and the band gets to say thank you for your help on the website.”
His brows draw together in speculation. “Is this you being generous now?”
“I guess so.” My body tugs me a step closer. He doesn’t know the half of it. I can be all kinds of generous. I can give until there’s nothing left to take—for the right person. Toni is most definitelynotthe right person.
“All right.” He rises from his chair. “I’ll be there, disgruntled friends in tow.”
Nodding, I pull out my phone and open a new contact entry for him before handing it over. “I’ll text you the details.” He types in his number and hands it back.
The weight of the following silence reminds me of the extra person in the room. Logan’s expression has shifted from amused to knowing.
“I’ll walk you out,” he says. “Make sure you don’t get lost on the way to the front door.”
“Thanks.” Before following him, I drink in one more look of the man with the dimples to die for. “I hope you enjoy the show, Toni with an I.”
His glance is brief, as if I’ve already been dismissed. “We’ll see.”
Logan and I barely make it out the door before he gives a low chuckle. “Or you could have offered to blow him right there at his desk. I swear, I would have left the room.”
My eyes close as I hang my head with a groan. “Fuck off, Logan.”
TWO
______
TONI
Rodney stares down his nose at the slice of apple pie our waiter has placed in front of him. The treat is barely visible beneath the mountain of extra whipped cream I asked for when I ordered it. His brows lower. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“This is lunch,” I say before taking a sip of my latte. “Then we get to choose dessert.”
A flicker of a smile disrupts the icy facade, but then his eyes narrow. “I’m still annoyed at you.”
“Of course you are, and I totally deserve whatever shade you want to throw my way.” I allow my gaze to lower to his plate, knowing his will follow. “On the other hand, the pie does look rather scrumptious.” I pause for effect before adding, “You know my contrition never lasts long, so you may as well enjoy it.”
He manages to hold out for all of five seconds before caving like a paper straw after the third sip.
“Fine.” Grabbing his spoon, he scoops up a generous helping of cream and slides it between his lips with an appreciative moan. “You know me too well.”
“I know you’re a slut for whipped cream,” I tease with a carefully restrained grin. I don’t want him to think I’m not taking his temper tantrum seriously.
“This is the problem with you,” he says around a mouthful of pie. “You know everything about me.”
Pausing in the act of spreading butter on my slice of banana bread, I frown. “We’ve been friends since Grade 7, Rodney. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
“Are we friends, though?” The question comes with an air of genuine scepticism. “Because sometimes it feels like we’re acquaintances who happen to have known each other a long time rather than actual friends.” When I stare at him blankly, he gives an exasperated sigh. “I never have any idea what’s really going on with you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m an open book.”
“No, Toni. I’m an open book.” He jabs the end of his spoon in my direction. “You’re a glossy magazine with a big arse sealed section no one’s allowed to open. It’s gotThe Real Dealstamped on it in glitter.”
“Oh, please. Everyone knows the glossy pages are the best part. Sealed sections are a tacky ploy to draw attention to an underbelly of crap people only think they want to see.” I cut my bread into bite-sized squares before placing the knife on the edge of the plate. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of me missing one party.”
