Page 51 of The Alibi Club

“I’ll have an Old Fashioned.”

He smiled a too-damn-sexy smile and said, “Right on.” He set to work.

Jamie checked her phone and had three text messages. The first was from Derick.

Focus on your short-term goals. You are here to secure a date for Elaine Cromwell Frisco’s wedding. Nothing more. No matter how cute the bartender is. That fear you’re feeling? It isn’t reality, it’s just residue. Now for the love of God, re-apply your lip gloss.

She blinked herself out of her haze with Derick’s text as she pulled out her lip gloss and read the other two. She swore at his magic. How did he always know?

The second one was from her brother, Rip.

Go get ’em, hot stuff! Just be yourself! But try to leave out the murder-y bits.

Finally, the third text was from her mother, who lingered in the shadows of her life like a vampire, knowing all, casting gloom and doubt, sucking joy out like blood.

I presume you know what I mean by suitable. Don’t disappoint me. Tick tock.

Jamie shoved her phone in her purse at the same moment her drink arrived. It was the perfect shade of brown. She took a long sip, appreciating that Justin the bartender had at least one skill that could generate income. She let the bourbon soothe her jangled nerves.

The kitchen doors violently swung open and a large, highly animated figure came rushing out. The chef, as Jamie surmised from his white coat and floppy chef’s hat, bee-lined toward the older couple with a small, wiry woman in tow who was carrying three different bottles, likely the sommelier. The chef went on to explain the prix fixe menu in a flourish and spoke fervently about the wine pairings to the couple at the table.

As Jamie tried to eavesdrop on the conversation, an attractive, edgy young woman clad in a waitress uniform and sporting several piercings and a neck tattoo that looked like a snake, sidled up to Justin at the bar.

“Chef Pascal’s nervous,” the woman murmured to Justin, as she nibbled on her claw-like black lacquered nails.

Jamie concentrated on her Old Fashioned while listening to the new conversation.

“Dude. For sure. It’s his big opening week,” Justin said.

“Well, that too, but that’s not just some jerkoff over at that table. That’s Nigel Spokes and his wife, er, I forgot her name.”

Jamie looked up at Justin, whose expression clearly stated that he could not fathom who Nigel Spokes was. “Who?”

“Only the most notable food critic on the West Coast. Restaurants live and die by his reviews. He always comes in the first week of a new restaurant’s opening because he once famously said, ‘If they can’t get it right in the beginning, they’ll never get it right.’”

Justin appeared to take in this information with the deep appreciation of a stoner and said, “Whoa.”

Jamie took a peek over at the table. Nigel Spokes’s back was to her so she couldn’t read him, but she could read the face of his wife, who tipped her champagne glass while never taking her steely glare off her husband. Betrayed, calculating, homicidal. Maybe that last judgment was a little too strong. Maybe Jamie was simply picking up unhappy due to recent spat. Happened all the time. Who hadn’t briefly imagined a little spousal murder after a terrible argument?

Jamie ruminated on why Mrs. Spokes might be in such a state when the door to the small restaurant opened and a tall, nerdy guy walked in. Dressed in khakis, a white button-down, and black leather Adidas, his wide-eyed gaze made him appear both freaked out and excited. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and headed toward the bar where Jamie was standing.

“Hi, are you, uh—” he stammered.

“Dinner for Six?” Jamie offered a smile. “Yep. Looks like we’re the first two here. I’m Jamie.” He shook her hand and gave a half smile, then drew back his hand and ran it through his floppy hair.

“Hey, I’m Kyle.”

Jamie could surmise through the skittish nature and soft handshake that he was some sort of nerd. Either computers, or gaming, definitely techy. Tech-savvy. Earnest. Nerd. “Weird, huh? This kind of setup?” she offered.

Kyle gave a shrug and said, “Better than online dating.”

“You can say that again. Worst thing ever invented, right?” Jamie said, grateful for the small talk.

“Actually, no. The worst thing ever invented was data trafficking, by far. It has essentially made the world into a Big Brother state, which we’ve all blindly consented to. It’s so invasive and equally pervasive that I can find out your age, weight, favorite Netflix show, and how much porn you watch within two minutes.”

“Wow.” So much for small talk.

“What’s your last name?” Kyle asked as he reached for his phone.