Page 334 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Those are two names I never thought would collide, but here he’s standing in the middle of my world, and I can’t take my eyes off him.

Her hand was on its way to him when the last detail I never shared with her slides in, and it makes her freeze, her hand hovering. “Andrew’s the reason? Andrew what?” She eyes him suspicious.

His chest grazes my shoulder as he leans in, taking her hand anyway. “Just Andrew.”

Then she doesn’t let go, his hand held hostage by her. “You’re the reason the deal is officially six feet under?”

Andrew’s eyes fall to me.

“Nah. She’s hustlin’ you with that humble act. We all know who’s actually runnin’ the show.”

“Mhmm…” Callista hums, eyes bouncing between us as she finally releases him. “And where’d you find him, Allie? You two collabing on something, or is this⁠—”

“He’s my unofficial advisor,” I quickly say, ignoring his eyes hitting the side of my face. “Figured I owed him a drink for helping me kill the deal. Let him meet the star we fought for.” I grab his bicep. “Can’t say I haven’t tried, but unfortunately? This Jersey boy doesn’t fuck with girls from New York.”

Callista’s brows shoot up to Andrew. “Don’t tell me you were stupid enough to say that out loud.”

He scoffs into his drink.

“You can’t trust a thing—” He stops,

drink halfway to his lips,

then he glances down at me, amused.

“Actually, yeah. I did say that. Once.”

A laugh leaves her. “Guts is what got us here. Alright, Just-Andrew,” she sighs, eyeing him. “You saved me from Clementine, so I’m gonna look the other way on the New York comment. But next time you say something stupid, those pretty eyes won’t save you.”

“Callista,” someone calls out.

She lifts on her heels. “Who’s that? Is that Persie? No way, that’s Persie,” she says to herself. “I’m gonna go kick some doors down in that cigar lounge.” She snaps her fingers before pointing it at Andrew. “Just-Andrew, be nice to my girl tonight. And Allie, so stoked for the duet. It’s my favorite part of the night!”

“Yeah, yeah…” I say, waving her off.

She vanishes into the crowd,

leaving a streak of emerald

like the tail of a comet.

Andrew’s staring at me, squinting.

“Unofficial advisor?”

I smirk into my glass, then take a sip.

The small lounge band breaks into a boogie-woogie bassline, the pianist ripping a classic 1950s rock-and-roll glissando, right into Run Rudolph Run.

Andrew’s brows jump.

“Oh, this song’s all you.”

He plucks the glass from my hand,

ditches our drinks on a nearby table,

and spins back to face me,