“I’ve never told you lies.”
He begins to fill a second glass. “You just do lots of sidestepping and a fabulous line in avoidance. Something tells me the story behind ole’ Oberon’s appearance is a doozy.”
“Fine.” I take the glass from his hand. “Please stop wiggling your brows.”
“What?” His hand flies to his head. “It can’t have worn off already.”
I shake my head. “Vanity, thy name is Jenner.”
“You seem to have mistaken me,” he says, flicking his hair. “Because I am gorgeous.”
“Well, gather around, gorgeous.” I make a motion a little like a wicked queen waving at her subjects. “Because it sounds like it’s story time.”
“Yay!” Like a toy monkey with symbols, Jenner claps his hands.
“When I was at college—” I pause, considering how surreal this feels. I never thought the first person ever to hear this tale would be Jenner. “You know, I haven’t told anyone this before now.” Though something tells me I’ll be sick and tired of explaining at least some of this in the coming weeks and days.
“I’m here for you.” Jenner’s expression softens, his hand reaching across the table to cover mine.
“Thank you.”
“I’m also here for this. So get on with it.”
“Sheesh, I’m getting there!”
“And I’m getting old.” Rolling his eyes, he prompts, “So you were at college.”
“And I was . . . I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar.”
“This had better not be a karaoke song.”
“Who’s telling this story?”
“Fine. Don’t skip the good parts and start at the beginning.”
5
Kennedy
VEGAS, BABY.
I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar in Portland, mainly to pay for my rent and, you know, to eat and stuff. My scholarship to PSU only covered my tuition. But I wasn’t in Portland when I met Roman. And I wasn’t wearing my waitressing uniform. We were in Vegas, and I was wearing the tiniest, sparkliest dress I’ve ever owned . . .
* * *
PAST
I BLAME CHRIS HEMSWORTH
“Oh my God, you will never guess who I was just talking to.” April’s head appears by my shoulder as she bends over the back of the velvet banquette, setting down a cluster of glasses on the table.
“Julian Edelman?” Given her hushed awe, the fancy-assed hotel bar we were in, and her crush on the man, it seems like a decent guess.
“I wouldn’t be delivering drinks if Ju Ju was standing at the bar.” She snorts, kind of as if. “But in a very decent second place, it was those Australians. Those hot Australians.” Her eyes flare comically as she rounds the booth and slides into her seat.
“Cool.” I allow myself a brief glance over my shoulder before turning back to divide the glasses between our tablemates. My actions might appear indifferent, but inside I’m fizzing. He’s here! I wonder if it’s all the sunshine they get over there because talk about sex on legs.
“Cool,” April parrots. “No biggie.” She flicks a length of caramel hair over her shoulder. “I’ve just been talking to the dark-haired hottie you have a mad crush on, but you’re too cool for school to act interested.”
I almost laugh because cool I am not. And cool for school? Try overworked.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested, but I wouldn’t say I’m crushing or anything.” Over the previous year or so, I’d found it best not to protest too strongly when it comes to April and her ideas. My college roommate, friend, and the current birthday girl gets far too much enjoyment out of seeing me squirm.
“Liar, liar, panties on fire. I saw you looking at him at the pool. Crush city! Population you,” she says, wiggling all ten of her fingers in my direction.
“I might have a tiny crush.” I bring my thumb and index finger close together. “Very low-key.”
April snorts. “If low-key brings you just short of digging through his trash.”
“Like I even have access to his trash,” I reply with a chuckle. It might be my first time staying in a hotel, but I’m not completely uncultured.
“So you’re saying access to his trash is your only obstacle?”
“What I’m saying is you’re ridiculous.” Lifting my glass to my lips, I pause to add, “It’s not like I’m stalking him or anything.” I’d just happened to notice him in the hotel lobby on Wednesday. And then again on Thursday. Then a little later at the Starbucks down the street. Oh, and yesterday at the hotel pool. And then later in the elevator, which is when I might have turned a little stalker-ish, given I was stepping out of the car as he was stepping in, and that I might’ve feigned forgetting something just to travel in the same car with him. You know, just to see what floor he was staying on.
I’m curious, is all. It’s not like I’m expecting anything to come from it. For one, he’s way out of my league, and for two, I’m not down for a fling. And he seems the fling type, like the word “torrid” was made just for him. I probably have Nana’s racy romance books to thank for that analogy.