“Fine. Great.”
Is she being short with me? Was my response not flattering enough for her?
“Well, as they say in old Hollywood, don’t call us. We’ll lose your number and pretend you never existed,” she says.
“They didn’t say that. Did I give you my number?” I grab my phone and flip through the contacts, but nope. Nothing.
Julia rolls her eyes. “Relax, O Anxious One. You shall remain unmolested. At least, you won’t be molested further.” She wrinkles her nose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the Grey Havens.”
She pulls her shirt on over her purple lacy bra. I’m a little sad to see that go, even as I want to get her out the door.
“Grey Havens. Is that the hotel café?” I ask.
She starts laughing hysterically. She has to lean against the wall, her face flushing pink with exertion. Apparently I’m amusing.
“Oh, I needed that. Humor keeps us all from going insane, you know? See you around, Nate.” She blows an air kiss, and then slips into some impractically tall heels.
We head to the front door, and she spins around, striking a dramatic pose. “Tell me you’ll never forget me,” she says, her head tilted back and one hand flung into the air.
“Bye,” I say, ushering her out and closing the door after her.
I lean my forehead against that door for a second, taking a deep breath. All right. Calm. Under control. First I need to head for the bathroom, to shower and clean off the smell of cheap booze and sweat.
There’s a knock at the door. Shit, she probably forgot something. I open up to find a valet holding an extraordinary bouquet of flowers. And when I say extraordinary, I mean tacky beyond all reason. Brightly colored roses, explosions of baby’s breath, pink and orange tiger lilies sprayed with glitter and rearing up out of the back of the arrangement. There are even miniature blown-glass flowers, bright yellow and neon blue. I rub my eyes and shake my head.
“The wedding venue’s the pavilion. Take it down—”
“Wedding?” The valet blinks at me. Maybe if I close the door on him, it’ll send a message.
“Yeah, Kaufman-Rosenbaum wedding.”
“Nate Wexler?” the kid asks. Oh, fuck. “Delivery. You ordered these last night.”
Of course I did. I stare at the monstrous bouquet, wanting to punch it in its flowery face. “You don’t remember any other spectacularly ridiculous things I did last night, do you?” I grumble as I stand aside and let him in. The valet trots into the living room and deposits the bouquet on the coffee table. He blinks again, a hotel-employed deer in the headlights.
“I just deliver flowers,” he mumbles. I grab my wallet, tip him, and he leaves while I stare at the gargantuan floral display. There’s a card, at least. I grab it and read it.
Julia,
I can’t believe we did that. You’re so fucking sexy.
I actually ordered a floral arrangement and had the florist put that on the card. But that’s not even the worst part. “I can’t believe we did that”? Well, what the flying fuck did we do?
As I stumble into the bathroom, turn on the shower and get in, my mind races. Did we actually fuck? Where did we go last night, and what did we do? Will this pounding headache ever go away?
When the hell did I get a tattoo?
What did we do that I couldn’t believe?
Seriously. What the fuck happened yesterday?
3
Nate
Yesterday, 3:02 pm
“Nate the Great! My man, how are you?” Tyler Berkley lifts his Ray-Bans and gives me a huge high five as I walk into the lobby. My high five is more sedate than his. But as Albert Schweitzer once said, you don’t leave a brother hanging.
“I’m doing good, apart from still being hounded by a nickname that should’ve died ten years ago,” I say, though I clap Tyler on the shoulder. For Tyler, ten years is no time at all. I’ve long since traded in my stained college tees for a professional suit and tie. Meanwhile, Tyler’s still wearing board shorts and a tank top, like it’s senior year. Even flip flops, God help us all. Some things don’t get old. At least, not to Tyler Berkley.
“Where’s the party?” I ask, peering around the bustling lobby. The place is expansive, cream and gold, with enormous and colorful blown glass flowers decorating a section of the ceiling. The marble floors are polished and buffed to perfection.
“Party’s right this way, my man,” Tyler says with a grin. He puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly. A couple of perfect ten girls in sundresses walk by, eyeing us with disdain.