“She does not have this,” I mutter under my breath.
“Now, from one business owner to another”—Fitz throws an arm around my shoulder—“you have to let your employees rise to the occasion.”
“I don’t need you to mansplain to me about running a business.”
“Fantastic. So come to the hockey game with me. I have the nicest sky suite booked. No mansplaining.” He holds up a hand.
“Hardly impressive since you own the stadium.”
He preens. “Now you’re getting it. Olive”—he salutes her—“godspeed.”
She giggles.
“I’m not dressed,” I grumble.
“We’re going to a regular-season afternoon hockey game, not the Super Bowl, Creampuff. Fucking Toronto. You look great. That little bit of cheese on your nose really completes the whole ensemble.”
“Now this is a limo,” Gran boasts to me as Fitz steers me out onto the sidewalk. “Look at that thing! I can’t stand those rich guys that like to pretend they’re poor. You got the cash, put on a show. This is exactly the kind of car I’d buy if I had a bazillion dollars.”
“This isn’t a limo—it’s an abomination.” I stare at the pimped-out bright-metallic-blue SUV limo in front of me. “It’s ostentatious and a fire hazard. Why does it have so many doors? Wait—” I frown. “Did you just hack a bunch of cars together?”
Two of the doors raise up like the bloated Batmobile, and we all clamber in. The leather seats inside are an equally nauseating shade of blue.
“It’s for the fire hazard that you’re so worried about. Have a drink, Winnie.” He pours me champagne. “For someone running Seattle’s second-cutest café, you seem stressed.”
“Second-cutest?”
“There’s that corgi café on Second.”
“Man picks you up in a swanky car, you suck his dick—you don’t complain.” Gran swats me. “Haven’t I taught you anything?”
27
WINNIE
I’m a little tipsy when Fitz leads us to the skybox, his arm around my waist. Why is he acting like I’m his—I don’t know—girlfriend or something?
He hasn’t even kissed me. He hasn’t even pretended like he wants to kiss me.
Am I being friendzoned?
You don’t take a friend to an expensive sporting event, right?
Well, you do if you’re just one of a crowd.
Kathy shrinks behind me.
The WAGs did not get the memo that this was a casual hockey game. They are dressed to the nines. Super-high heels. Custom jackets with their SOs’ numbers in the Seattle-blue color.
Kathy and I stand out in our pink-and-black Brew & Browse polo shirts and black pants.
“Stand up straight, girls,” Mom whispers, running her finger up my spine.
“Fuck these people,” Gran declares too loudly.
“She needs a hearing aid.” Kathy winces.
“We’re getting drunk and eating caviar on Winnie’s new boyfriend’s dime.”
