I wrestle him onto his back and slide across him to straddle his waist. “I already told you, Connor. You’resomuch more than my boss.”
“Do this again and you’re asking for trouble,” he warns, his hands sliding up my thighs.
I lean forward anyway, our noses nearly touching. “You’re also…my team captain.”
“Right, that’s it,” he says, flipping our positions in one swift movement. “I’m reporting you toHR.”
I giggle. We’re pressed right together now, one on top of the other. I wrap my arms around his shoulders. His lips find mine. Time melts.
Twenty-Six
Connor is up early to meet Ben the next morning and sends me on my way with a kiss and stern instructions to be the bigger person. I chant my mantra the whole way home, so giddy with the events of last night I feel like I’m floating.
It’s a quick turnaround. I have just enough time to get back to the apartment and change before I have to meet Shannon, whirling through my bedroom like a hurricane.
Sam is here; I swear I hear her talking to someone, hear her moving around behind her bedroom door, but when I call her name softly there’s no reply, and any noise I thought I heard has stopped.
—
Shannon’s bridal shop of choice is in SoHo, tucked between two other designer stores regularly frequented by celebrities. It’s the Instagram template of a wedding store, a boutique of quiet, understated luxury. The floors are distressed wood, and there’s a jewel-toned sofa and an enormous changing room that’s closed off with a heavy velvet curtain.
Shannon is already here, standing in front of a row of gowns with the sales associate, who is holding the hem of a dress outfor her inspection. She turns back and looks at me, then resumes her conversation. I grind my molars.
“Morning,” I say, infusing my tone with all the false cheer I can muster. I come to a stop besideher.
“Hi,” she says absently. She shows the sales associate a picture of a dress on her phone, who nods, then asks us to wait here. Shannon returns to flicking through the rack.
There’s a bit of an energy here. I’m mad at her about this weekend. She’s mad at me about the last two years. When she finally turns to look at me, neither of us have much tosay.
I recover first. “How was the comedy show last night?”
“We didn’t go,” she says, waving a hand. “We ended up just getting an Uber home.”
Bigger person.
“Oh. How come?”
“Dan didn’t know anyone on the lineup.”
“That’s kind of the point,” I say testily.
“I’ll pay you for them.”
“It doesn’t matter.” And it doesn’t. It definitely doesn’t.
I’m annoyed. But I ambeing the bigger person,so I will dropit.
Another shop employee materializes, saving us from ourselves. “Can I offer you both a glass of champagne?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Shannon?”
“Sure.” She shrugs. She could not look less interested.
Actually, now that I think of it, she seems a little unenthused about all of it. Considering a big part of the reason she came to New York was for this particular store, her whole demeanor is kind of…flat.
The woman pours out two flutes of champagne, passes them over, then disappears behind a partition. I wonder how many staff members are back there, quietly lurking.
I take a sip of my champagne, the bubbles pleasantly fizzing on my tongue. Shannon stares into her glass.
