Presley blinked and let out a nervous laugh. “You’re kidding.”
I quirked a brow. “You’ve known me how many years? Have I ever been a kidder?”
“Well…no…butfired? What the hell happened? You’re one of the best, if not the best food critic in the city. You have hundreds of thousands of followers. You are the taste of New York.”
“Hmm. I like that. The Taste of New York.” I stretched out my legs, crossing my ankles. “Maybe I should start my own blog, like that bastard Salvatore Grant did, and show them they fucked up. They chose the wrong person.”
“Frisco, you’re not making sense. What do you mean, chose the wrong person? What happened?”
“Thomas Webster—the editor in chief ofUltimate NYC—and I have never seen eye to eye, and he brought in that blogger Grant, who’s had his head up my ass for the past two years, to be part of the magazine. Out with the old and in with the new.” I waved my hand and downed my drink. No job, no Torre, and no drink. Things could only go up.
“Shit. I can’t believe it. Well, they’re going to regret it. And fuck them,” Press said staunchly. “I’m canceling my subscription and telling them why.” With a troubled expression, he took my empty glass and made me another.
I took the drink from him. Perhaps I’d get very drunk tonight and send Webster a text telling him what I really thought of his lying, cheating ass. “You’re sweet. But as you can see, I’m not crying my eyes out.” I rubbed my stomach. “No more cramps in the middle of the night or ill-prepared food that’ll send me to the emergency room. I won’t miss that.”
“I can understand the appeal. So what will you do? Do you have any ideas?”
“I only found out two hours ago. Give me a chance to get drunk first.”
We sat for a few minutes before Presley started up the questions again. “What does Torre think?”
“Why does it matter?” I said, irritated by Presley’s question because I hadn’t been able to get in touch with Torre, and irritated with myself because I wanted to.
“Who the hell are you kidding?”
Did I mention how Presley had grown a pair since he and Nate became an item? And lucky me, I was the beneficiary of his little independent streak.
“Do I look like I’m kidding? I came to talk to you because you’re my best friend, and I know you have a fully stocked bar. Whether or not I’ve spoken to Torre is irrelevant.”
Presley said nothing but kept that dark, thoughtful gaze trained on me. I rattled the cubes in my glass, and for the first time in our friendship, I was the one to blink first. “All right, already. He wasn’t home. We were supposed to have dinner tonight before Edward canned me.”
A crafty gleam brightened Presley’s face. “I knew it. You don’t want to admit it, but you care about him.”
The wine, champagne, and two Negronis got to me. Contrary to what people might think, I rarely drank to excess. I might have a glass of wine with dinner and an after-dinnerdigestif, but too much liquor spoiled the palate. So right then, it might’ve been the alcohol buzzing through my blood, or the fact that his words hit too close to a simple truth I wasn’t yet willing to face, but I’d suddenly had enough.
“You don’t know anything.” I set my glass on the coffee table and rose from my seat. “I need to get home.”
“Don’t shut me out, please?” Press got to his feet to follow me. “I swear I’m not teasing you. I’m just so damn happy you’ve met someone who’s finally broken through.”
“I’m not a fucking window. No one broke through anything.” Paying him no further attention, I strode through his house and passed Nate coming down the stairs. “Go take care of Presley. I got him all worked up for you. You’re welcome.”
I walked outside, drawing in deep breaths of the cool air. I might’ve denied to Press that being with Torre mattered, but when a check of my phone revealed no response from Torre to my texts, my mood turned as sour as vinegar.
“Bastard,” I muttered. “Where the hell are you? Are you with someone else already?”
My, my, aren’t we touchy? Perhaps Presley is right after all.
The echo of that fucking devil’s laugh rang in my head.
