Not a surprise.
Tipsy people donate more.
“That’s a deal,” I say, shaking Jace’s hand and hitching my head to the side. “I’ll give Chrissy my regards then I’m out.”
“Try not to fall asleep before I get there, old man.”
“Cute,” I mutter.
“Hey”—a shrug—“I’m not the one who’s a whole year older.”
“For the record, it’s only ten months.”
He grins. “Ten months closer to the end, you mean.”
I roll my eyes. “Why did I come back here again?”
“Because you missed me.” He shoves my shoulder. “Now go home and turn on the hockey game. I’ll be right behind you.”
Right behind me.
Sure.
He’ll probably get distracted and then I won’t get any pizza.
Or bourbon.
That’s why I call an audible. “I’ll pick up the pizza,” I tell him. “You bring the alcohol.”
If worse comes to worst, I have beer in my fridge and my college-esque bender will be covered.
And maybe if I drink the beerandthe bourbon I’ll forget about hair the color of moonlight and a boot connecting with my junk and a missing flash drive with information that threatens to undo the very roots of my company.
“Don’t eat it all,” Jace says.
“No promises,” I mutter.
He shoves my shoulder. “Asshole.”
I shrug.
He’s not wrong.
Something he obviously knows because he just snorts and turns away, heading toward the couple who flagged him down a few minutes ago.
He’s quickly drawn into what looks like a pretty serious conversation, and I don’t delay further, just down the rest of my glass of wine, set it on an empty tray, and then head for the exit.
Unfortunately, it’s not a clean getaway.
Though at least this time I’m not waylaid by the perfume cloud known as Bailey.
“Brooks Saxton as I live and breathe.”
Nope.
It’s worse.
Summer Sandringham is about as high society as one gets in the Bay Area filled with tech magnates and Hollywood transplants.
