“Please tell me you’re not about to spiral over a random bearded man with a guitar case.”
“I’m not,” I defend harder.
She narrows her eyes at me disbelievingly. “We’ll see.”
She hooks her arm through mine and drags me toward the bar entrance before I can overthink it. “Relax. You’re allowed to notice hot strangers. Especially on your birthday, and especiallyin December.”
The bar is warm and buzzing, low lights reflecting off polished wood and glass. A small band is set up in one corner, tuning instruments, and the air smells like citrus, alcohol, and cinnamon again, only this time it’s coming from candles and cocktails, not a single dangerous-looking man.
We slide onto stools at the bar. Addison orders something strong and brown while I settle for something festive and sweet, because if I’m going to be sad on my birthday, I might as well lean into it aesthetically.
We clink glasses.
“To surviving another year,” she toasts.
“To pretending we’re thriving,” I reply.
She laughs, then sobers slightly, studying me over the rim of her glass. “You okay, Kate?”
I nod. “Yeah. I mean, yes. I’m good. I just…” I trail off, swirling my drink. “It’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
“You know how much I love this time of year,” I admit. “I really do. But it also makes everything louder. Expectations. Timelines. My mom.” I groan that last part.
Addison visibly grimaces. “The grandbaby agenda?”
I nod in confirmation. “The ever-present grandbaby agenda. Apparently, twenty-seven is when women spontaneously combust if they’re not married.”
“You could always tell her you’re joining a convent.”
“She’d ask for grandchildren from the nuns.”
Addison laughs, then her phone buzzes. She checks it, eyebrows lifting. “Well, speak of indulgence.”
“What?”
“That guy I met in Kabul? He’s in town and wants to meet up.” She grins unapologetically. “He owes me a drink or two.”
That’s Addison Avery Sinclair in a sentence. Five foot nine, all sharp lines and restless energy, dark hair that is usually pulled into a messy bun that looks accidental but never is. Her eyes are a piercing hazel that miss nothing, always scanning, calculating exits and angles like danger is something she expects to find, and secretly hopes to. She’s an investigative journalist by trade, the kind who runs straight toward gunfire instead of away from it, who embeds herself in war zones and unstable regions because truth, to her, is worth the risk. She thrives in chaos, feeling most alive when things are on fire.
And then there’s me.
Five foot five. Softer curves. Lighter hair that behaves only when bribed. I write gossip columns for one of the largest media houses in Los Angeles, dissecting celebrity scandals and whispered affairs from the safety of my desk. My biggest occupational hazard is an angry publicist or a cease-and-desist email. Addison chases danger across continents while I observe drama from a comfortable distance. She exposes corruption, and I uncover cheating spouses and PR disasters.
We work for the same company, but we live in entirely different worlds, yet somehow, we’ve always balanced each other.
I arch a brow. “You disappeared for months into a war zone, and now you’re ditching me on my birthday?”
“You said one drink.”
“I said one drinkwith you.”
She squeezes my hand. “You’ll be fine. You’re charming, and who knows?” Her eyes flick meaningfully toward the exit. “Maybe your cinnamon mystery man will reappear.”
I snort. “Highly unlikely.”
“Stranger things have happened,” she says lightly, already sliding off her stool. “Text me when you get home.”
