That’s not at all what I said, but I follow Grandma’s lead. “Yes. Aunt Betty Boop’s cat needs you too. That’s the one who broke his fingernail. Toenail? Paw-nail?”
Bellamy arches a brow as she listens to me. Meanwhile, Coco is improving on the other end of the call.
“We need to charter a helicopter tonight. Yes, pick me up so we can make it to the air pad on time,” Coco replies. “To Boston we go.”
My grandmother and I are having parallel conversations, apparently. “I’ll tell Harvey to fire up the chopper. Also, I’m pretty sure with cats it’s just a claw or toenail. Not a paw-nail.”
“I so hope Aunt Betty will be okay,” Coco says.
“And Aunt Betty’s cat,” I add, but Coco has already hung up.
Bellamy cocks her head. “Let me get this straight. Your friend, sister, or buddy”—she sketches air quotes around all three—“needs your help with her aunt and her cat?”
“It’s my grandmother. Her cat, Priscilla, is fine, though.”
“That’s a new excuse for dashing off after sex. Impressively creative,” Bellamy says sharply, grabbing her purse. “But fair is fair. Women learn young how to use cats or aunts to slip away from uncomfortable dates. I simply had no idea guys used the same excuses. Although adding a helicopter was hardly necessary,” she says. “I got the hint.”
Are you kidding me? I grab her arm before she can storm away. “You think that was for my benefit? One, I don’t need a Mayday with you. Don’t want one. Two, that was my grandmother asking for help in code. And since you don’t believe me, you’re coming with me to fetch her.”
Bellamy’s hand flies to her mouth, but it’s too late to take anything back. “Oh, shoot, Easton. I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, still irritated. “You have more walls than an international border.”
“That might be true,” she admits, chagrined. “I’ll help rescue Grandma from a bad date any way I can.”
I huff. “You damn well better.”
The Supper Lounge is a few blocks away on Sixth Avenue, so there’s time to walk and talk. But the second we step outside the warehouse, Bellamy’s phone rings. She holds up a finger to me, then answers it.
“Hey, Bryn,” she says, sliding into a professional voice as we walk along Nineteenth Street, then she’s quiet as she listens.
“I appreciate you calling me back, especially at night,” she says finally.
Another pause. It lasts nearly a minute, until we’re nearing the crosswalk.
“Definitely,” she tells the caller with a crisp nod. “I can be there Thursday afternoon.”
Silence.
“I appreciate you making time for me so quickly. Thank you.”
Another pause as we reach the intersection, then Bellamy laughs. “So glad Bruce is doing well with Queen LaTofu. I had a feeling about those two. It’s nice to know they’re in kitty love.”
My brows climb at that, and Bellamy thanks the woman and hangs up. “Cat affairs,” she explains.
“Sounds like quite a lot of feline tomfoolery going on.”
“It does seem that way.” She segues back to that more businesslike tone. “Bryn used to head up The Dating Pool. She works as a consultant now.”
I don’t ask if Bellamy is setting up an interview with the woman because I don’t want to bring up the podcast after our piano encounter. I’m more interested in why Bellamy needed a hot hate fuck.
I know why I did—the woman pissed me all the way off, and I can’t get her out of my head.
We’re not going to become a thing. Bellamy and I are on opposite sides of the romance ring in every way, professionally and personally.
She wants big, epic romance. I don’t.
Case closed.
I should say goodnight so we can go our separate ways. Let her off the hook for fetching Coco.
And yet, I don’t want to.
“I can’t wait for you to meet Grandma,” I say. “Mostly to hear you say, you were right, Easton. I have a reputation to uphold as a ‘cocky fucker.’ Your words.”
“Hmm. I believe I called you cocky. Not sure I used the work fucker.”
“Poetic license,” I say. “Though, I’d say it fully applies, now.”
“Art imitating life, I suppose.”
“No. The other way around.”
“Fair point,” she says. “And since you are a cocky fucker—now officially my words—you can’t wait to say I told you so.”
I tap my chin. “That’s not true. I can definitely wait. Because it’s going to be so very satisfying,” I say, then I lean closer, coast a finger along her cheek. “Like fucking you was.”
She shivers, and I file that away.
Oh, yes, I can wait for my you were right.
We round the corner and reach The Supper Lounge. I push open the heavy doors and usher Bellamy inside, where we hunt through the crowd for my elegant grandmother.
A swing band plays on a low stage in the corner, and the notes of a saxophone float over the tables. “Bet she’s out with some suit,” I mutter. “She can’t resist guys in suits.”