“Come on,” I said, picking up the pace to avoid further discussion of my finances. “I’m starving.”
The Pelican was nearlyempty that evening. Gillian and I shook off the cold as we came through the door. Our favorite hunky, albeit grumpy, bartender, Hunter Sloan, was behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, a rag in one hand. He looked up and then headed our direction with menus in hand. “Ladies. Your usual booth’s open.”
“Thanks, Hunter,” I said.
He glanced toward the door, then back at us. “Seraphina coming tonight?”
“Yeah, why?” I asked.
“She left her scarf here last night,” Hunter said, glowering. “Here with some guy in a suit. A date maybe?”
“Really?” Gillian asked. “Are you sure it wasn’t her agent?”
Hunter’s expression shifted from brooding to nonchalant. He lifted one shoulder as if it were neither here nor there.“Maybe. They seemed pretty intense.”
“Definitely her agent,” Gillian said.
“Oh. Sure. That makes sense.” He set the menus down a little too carefully, like he needed something to do with his hands. “Good. Great.” He cleared his throat. “What can I get you?”
Gillian asked for a club soda. I ordered a glass of white wine.
Lila arrived next, slightly flushed from the cold, her dark hair up in a ponytail. “Hey, friends. Am I late? My client meeting went longer than expected.” She wore a soft cashmere wrap the color of uncooked oats, dark slim jeans, and a pair of ankle boots. A delicate gold necklace sparkled around her slender neck.
“Not at all. We just got here,” Gillian said.
“New client?” I asked.
“Yes. A friend of Alex’s,” Lila said. “Gillian, please thank him for me, by the way. She wants her entire house gutted and decorated. Every room. It’s going to be huge for me.”
“He’ll be pleased to hear that,” Gillian said.
Delphine and Seraphina came in together. Delphine must have come from the gallery, wearing a white linen blouse with the sleeves rolled once, tucked into high-waisted charcoal trousers, high black pumps and her hair in a bun. A structured black leather bag hung from one arm.
Seraphina shrugged out of an oversized camel coat. Underneath, she had on a fitted black turtleneck and a pair of jeans with strategically placed holes and black cowgirl boots. Her long red hair was wild and a little messy, which suited herauthor vibe. She slid into the booth and immediately held up one finger.
“Hang on. I just had an idea and if I don’t write it down this second I’ll lose it forever.” She pulled out her phone and started tapping furiously, blue ink smeared across the side of her hand from pinky to wrist. The sign of a left-handed writer.
I glanced down at my lap, wishing I’d taken more care of my appearance before coming out. I’d thrown on a pair of old jeans paired with a white tee and canvas tennis shoes earlier in the day and hadn’t even thought about changing. The Morrison wedding and caring for Madison had eaten up every spare minute.
My friends always looked so put together. Unless Seraphina was on deadline, in which case she wore her ugly writing sweater and a pair of leggings that we all teased her about. I glanced down and noticed a fine dusting of yellow pollen along one sleeve of my tee. When I tried to brush it away, it smeared into the fabric.
“I should never wear white,” I said, showing them the stain.
“It’s not even noticeable,” Gillian said.
“Liar,” I said, smiling back at her.
Hunter appeared at the table, club soda and white wine in hand. He set them down with a nod, then turned to the others. “What can I get you three?”
“Red wine,” Seraphina said, not looking up from her phone, typing faster.
“She’s writing an idea before she forgets,” I said to Hunter, not wanting him to think her rude.
“I get that,” Hunter said.
Really? Why was that?
“Red wine for me too, please,” Lila said.
