“Oh please, you don’t know any of these men. A lot of them don’t even look like writers. They’re probably sports agents or batboys or something. Like . . .” She scans over my shoulder until her eyes brighten. “That guy over there. In the purple tie.”
I roll my eyes but indulge her, subtly spinning in a slow circle until I spot our mark: a man in a suit standing by the bar, chatting with a couple of other corporate-looking types. Brown hair, average height, nothing too intimidating about him. A nice, approachable regular Joe.
I turn back to her. “He looks like a generic finance bro.”
“Or he could be a wealthy cologne executive just dying to meet his soul mate. Maybe he even manages the entire Coty portfolio of fragrances.”
“Or maybe he’s Eric Jessup’s even wealthier best friend,” I say with phony enthusiasm.
“That’s the spirit!”
I scoff. “Please.”
“Do I need to remind you that this story was your idea? You have no one to blame for this but yourself.”
As if I could forget. “Actually, I’m quite content to blame my grandmother.”
“Come on, this is going to be fun! For me to watch, at least.” She rubs her hands together like a cartoon villain. “Now, which one of the tips should we start with?”
I sigh in resignation and surrender to my fate, digging around in my bag until I come up with the plastic pages and hand them over.
She immediately starts snickering. “?‘Cry softly in the corner and wait for him to ask you what’s wrong.’?”
I raise a finger. “Not happening. I have my limits.”
“Probably a bit over the top,” she concedes. “How about this: ‘Walk up to him and tell him you need some advice.’ That’s perfect! Appeal to every male’s overinflated ego. And then just play dumb about whatever it is he says so he can do some mansplaining.”
I glance toward the front door, like if I just stare hard enough, Eric Jessup will magically appear and save me from this nightmare of my own making. “I’m not sure my ego can handle that.”
She hums. “Alright, how about this one: ‘Stumble into him, “accidentally” spilling the contents of your purse all over the floor.’ It doesn’t get easier than that.” She stares at me expectantly when I don’t move. “Chop-chop.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I grumble, reaching into my bag and unzipping my makeup pouch so as to achieve maximum spillage. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Our mothers burned their bras so I could set us back a generation.”
Natalia inhales sharply. “Our target just left his group! He’s walking toward the bathroom. Hurry up, you can cut him off at the pass.”
“Hang on, I don’t want to drop my phone,” I tell her, tucking it into my back pocket.
“Quit stalling, he’s right behind you. Go!”
She gives me a shove, and she must not know her own strength because I go careening backward like a drunken sailor, my arms windmilling comically as I try to stay upright, but I’m no match for gravity (and neither are these heels). The ensuing chain of events registers in a slow-motion sequence: I watch Natalia’s eyes pop wide as I collide with my unsuspecting victim. I hear his surprised “Whoa” and low grunt as my body collides with his. His arms lock around me instinctively as I topple him, and I feel the blunt impact of the floor even as his body breaks my fall. And I smell . . . well, I only smell Force by Eric Jessup, because it’s overpowered every other scent within a five-mile radius.
As the hot flush of embarrassment sets in that Yes, I just took out a random stranger accidentally-on-purpose, I remember my original mission and mentally throw up my hands, deciding I may as well go all in—then upend my purse, sending stray pens, napkins, makeup, and assorted debris raining down upon us. From my prone position, I watch one of my lipsticks disappear underneath a nearby table and want to die. The things I do for a story.
“I am so sorry,” I say, rolling off the poor guy, noting that—thankfully—he appears more amused than angry. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt? I’m so embarrassed,” I babble, quickly swiping a tampon that’s wedged underneath his shoe and stuffing it back in my purse.
He chuckles good-naturedly. “I’m just fine. Are you okay? That was quite a spill,” he says, passing me the travel-sized deodorant I carry in case of sweat-mergency. From the corner of my eye I spot Natalia watching from the bar, her entire body shaking with laughter. She is dead to me.
“I’m okay. And I really am sorry.” I frantically collect the stray hair ties, hand sanitizer, dental floss, Imodium tablets, Tic Tacs, and egg-shaped lip balms littering the floor while pretending not to notice the gaping stares of onlookers. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“Must be my lucky day, then.”
I snap my head up to find him grinning at me. Flirtatiously.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me. There is no way this asinine stunt actually worked.
“I’m Chase.” He holds a hand out to help me up.
“Cassidy,” I reply, standing and brushing off my pants. It’s a damn miracle I didn’t break an ankle in these heels.
He points to the keys I’m clutching in my hand, a bright yellow banana charm dangling from the key ring. “Interesting key chain.”
I wave a hand. “Long story. An inside joke, really.”
“How about I get you a drink and you can tell me all about it?” He flashes me another grin, eyes twinkling.
Unbelievable. Gran will be peacocking all over the place when I tell her.
“I don’t usually drink at work events,” I start to demur, then change my mind. “Actually, I think I’ve earned it, right?” Honestly, I probably should’ve downed a couple shots before committing to this harebrained scheme.
“You’ve more than earned it,” he assures me. “Pick your poison.”
“Anything—whatever they’re serving. Beer, wine . . .” 100-proof moonshine.
He tells me he’ll be right back, and once he’s out of eyeshot I glare at Natalia, who gives me a shit-eating grin and a thumbs-up. I roll my eyes and busy myself reorganizing my purse, doing my best to tamp down the lingering feelings of humiliation . . . that is, until I get the distinct feeling I’m being watched.
I scan the room casually, surveying the crowd, which has grown thicker now. Several men in my immediate vicinity send me pitying looks, and I wince theatrically so they know I’m in on the joke. It’s not until my eyes sweep past a shadowy corner that I spot him: a tall, dark-haired man watching me with interest, head cocked to one side, a bemused expression on his face.