Of what, knowing me? Ha. I’m Georgie Watkins of the cinnamon-sugar hair, and he’s…well, okay, fine.
He’s kind of a big deal.
I may have learned during my Google-stalking that the guy’s represented some of the biggest names in Hollywood.
I smile and nod my way through whatever Marley and Liv are chatting about, even as my gaze stays locked on Andrew’s angular profile. Not that he’s looking at me. Nope, his attention’s a hundred percent on Liv.
He laughs at something she says, and my
world tilts sideways, just for a moment. I don’t know what to do with laughing, smiling, charming Andrew Mulroney.
Why can’t I coax that from him?
Why do I want to?
I’ll figure it out later. When I’m plotting my revenge.
“Well, we’ll let you guys enjoy your dinner,” Marley says, with another air-kiss exchange with Liv. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Mulroney.”
“Yes, lovely,” I say sweetly, starting to follow Marley and the hostess.
I slow down just the slightest bit as I pass Andrew, giving him the opportunity to throw down a gauntlet under his breath. A see you tomorrow, or perhaps a you’re ridiculous. That’s one of his favorites.
He says nothing, already sitting back down, attention fixed on Liv Dotson as though I literally don’t exist.
Whatever.
I lift my chin and stride after Marley, taking a sip from my half-empty martini glass as I walk.
So our cold war just turned straight-up icy. No problem. I can work with that.
Georgie
FRIDAY, 5:03 A.M.
“Ramon, you owe me,” I say as I push through the revolving door of my building. “The donut shop guy forgot his key, so he opened up a few minutes late, but I love you, so I waited, and—”
I break off when I see that Ramon’s not alone, as he usually is when I come bearing donuts.
This is what I get for being three minutes late.
The back of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
True to form, the guy doesn’t even turn his head to watch me approach, which is really his loss, because the light pink dress is a super-cute color on me, and the matching Manolo Blahnik stilettos are completely on point.
“Ms. Watkins, good morning,” the concierge says.
I heave a sigh. “Oh, Ramon, no. You have your deferential face on. I hate that.”
“Do you even know what deferential means?” Andrew asks, not looking up from where he’s writing something on an envelope in anal, pretentious little letters.
“Oh, you’re talking to me now?” I say with a fake start of surprise.
“I always speak with you, Georgiana. Someone has to tell you when you’re being ridiculous.”
“Which is always?” I guess wryly.
He finally looks up. Looks me over. “Are you wearing glitter?”