In the kitchen, Libby set her sights on the food splayed on the counter. Positioning and repositioning the wooden trays covered in cheeses and fruit, Libby worried it was too much.
Without knowing Reagan’s expectations, they were impossible to meet.
When she couldn’t fidget with the charcuterie a moment longer, she checked the lasagna warming in the oven.
/> Returning to her room for another costume change, she prayed Reagan liked eggplant.
Libby was in the middle of flinging another dress into the growing heap when the doorbell rang.
Dressed in tight jeans, a loose blouse, and no shoes, she ran down the loft steps and answered the door with a racing heart. Standing in her doorway with slicked back hair, Reagan looked like James Dean and Charlize Theron had a baby. The sight short-circuited her brain.
“Hey, you made it,” Libby said before cringing internally at the obvious and unimaginative greeting.
The dimples at the corners of Reagan’s mouth appeared before she spoke. “Were you hoping I got lost in downtown’s myriad of one-way streets and dead ends?”
Laughter eased the nerves replicating in her belly. “Oh please, this from the girl who loves a city planned by drunk mice with pens strapped to their tiny paws.”
Libby stepped back to let Reagan inside.
“That’s kind of an adorable image,” Reagan decided as she crossed the threshold. “Imagine just how tiny those pens would have to be.”
“You’ve got a cute answer for everything, don’t you?”
Libby asked as Reagan sauntered in wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. The scent of clean linen and sandalwood trailed behind her like an intoxicating tail curling around a curious cat.
Reagan set the paper bag she’d been holding on the kitchen counter and looked back at her. “I’ve been told more than once that I’m rather adorable.”
Chuckling, Libby pushed the door closed and followed her inside. “What do you have in there?”
“Something delicious,” she promised as she pulled out a bottle with no label, a little jar of something clear, and a bag of oranges. “I think it will go well with this amazing spread you’ve made for us.”
Libby grinned. Always the charmer. She turned toward the cabinet and pulled out a set of tumblers she’d bought for Davis before they’d broken up. They hadn’t seen each other
in so long before the split, she hadn’t had a chance to give them to him. His loss was her gain once again.
“Where exactly did you procure this?” she asked, standing close enough to smell her perfume again.
“A friend of mine makes her own small batch bourbon.
It’ll be the single best thing you ever tasted,” Reagan replied with her chest all pu ed like a particularly proud peacock.
“Trust me.”
“You say things with such unshakable confidence,” Libby said as she brought her a tray of huge, square ice cubes.
“If I’m wrong, then you can have anything you want as a reward,” she replied without looking up from the orange whose peel she was slicing o .
Libby rested against the counter and peered up into Reagan’s deadly serious face. “You must be an amazing poker player,” she decided with a grin.
“Me?” Reagan’s lips formed a wry smile. “I never gamble.”
Libby let out a bark of laughter. “Then I guess I’m going to have to call your blu . What do I get if it’s not the best thing I’ve ever tasted? And mind you, I’ve been going to very fancy dinners since I was, like, twelve.”
Reagan’s dark eyes widened. This was exactly the game she was hoping for, and Libby was playing right into her trap. She was a mouse too drawn in by the cheese to care about the metal spring aching to let loose and snap her neck.
“If this is not the best Old Fashioned you’ve ever had, then you set your terms. It’s your wager.”
Accepting the glass, Libby didn’t break eye contact. They were locked in a game of chicken, but she didn’t know what the stakes were. “Okay, then. If I win, you have to give me a pottery lesson. On the house.”