Yep. I guess it’s possible. And mystery solved about Jacob’s plans tonight.
That’s when I realize that it’s not only the trajectory of my life that I’m altering in this strange second chance year. There’s a domino effect for everyone around me. What if Brandon is missing out on the love of his life because Jacob sent Paige the package and I didn’t? What if my actions are screwing up everybody’s lives?
But short of finding Brandon and dragging him to Paige’s door, there’s not much I can do to fix this. And who knows? Maybe Paige is the love of Jacob’s life, and not Brandon’s after all.
And if that thought bothers me more than it should… Well, there’s not much I can do to fix that either.
Chapter 16
Sadie,” Xavier says, as I put the last touches on a six-layer mimosa cake with chocolate drizzle and candied orange peel. “I need you to stay late tonight. Rob Thurmond and his group just came in, and he specifically requested you.”
I wonder how he managed that, since I doubt Rob even knows my name. Did he call me the girl whose ass I grabbed? I can still picture that smarmy grin as I backed away from him in disgust. There’s no way I’m letting him within ten feet of my ass again. Or any other part of me.
“I’m sorry, Xavier, but I can’t.” I set my pastry bag on the counter and push the champagne confection in his direction, hoping to distract him with his own reflection in the perfect mirror glaze. “I just finished up here, and I have something I really can’t get out of.”
“What is it?” he demands, not even glancing at the masterpiece before him.
It’s none of your business doesn’t seem like the smart response, even if it would feel really good to say it. I search for an excuse that Xavier would deem worthy of bailing on Rob Thurmond. Volunteering at the soup kitchen? No. Visiting my sick grandma? Unlikely. Emergency brain surgery? He’d want me to reschedule.
What if I just went ahead and told Xavier the truth about Rob? Alex suggested that maybe Xavier doesn’t know his VIP client is a creep with roving hands. As mortifying as it would be to have to admit what happened to me, maybe it’s the right thing to do?
But just as I’m opening my mouth to speak up, Xavier cuts in. “Rob and I have been friends for twenty-five years, and he’s a huge supporter of my restaurant. So, don’t drop any plates like you did last time.”
My mouth snaps shut. Why would Xavier ever believe the word of an assistant over his longtime friend and patron? I know exactly how this will play out. Rob will deny anything happened, and Xavier will fire me. And I’ll be right back where I started.
I can’t work that party, though. Not just because my skin crawls at the idea of Rob Thurmond’s hot, sweaty face. I’m meeting Alex and his boss, Dave, for dinner tonight, and Alex is waiting for me at the bar next door. But I don’t think a date with my boyfriend is going to cut it with Xavier as far as excuses go.
Luckily, I remember that Xavier loves anything to do with rich people and their money. “Actually,” I tell him, “I’m having dinner with one of the managing directors at Wright and Moore. They’re a top investment banking firm on Wall Street…”
“I know who they are.” Xavier rolls his eyes.
“I thought it would be a good opportunity to talk up the restaurant. Maybe invite him to come out for dinner sometime. He does a lot of entertaining clients, obviously, so I plan to assure him the chef’s table is always available.”
Xavier’s eyebrows raise. “Good thinking, Sadie.” He might actually look a little impressed. “I knew my instincts about you were right.” With that, he finally spares a glance at my cake. “Hmmm.” He purses his lips, and I brace myself. Finally, he murmurs, “Very nice. Great work.”
Whew.
As soon as Xavier heads out into the dining room to make a show of greeting Rob and his guests in an artificially enthusiastic voice, I run for the break room to grab the garment bag out of my locker and change into my designer dress and heels.
I hurry next door where Alex is waiting for me at the bar. As soon as he spots me standing in the doorway, his gaze sweeps down to my feet and then to the top of my head. I can tell by how his face lights up that he approves of my outfit. I’ve chosen a classic little black dress by Celine and paired it with the diamond pendant necklace and the Louboutin pumps. Since I had to work earlier, I didn’t have time to do anything with my hair except pull it into a super quick French twist, but I decide it gives me a Breakfast at Tiffany’s vibe. I try out a smoldering look on Alex, channeling Audrey Hepburn, and several people glance up from their drinks to admire me.
Maybe there really is something to these fancy, expensive clothes and accessories.
But before that thought has time to fully form, I step off the mat at the bar’s entrance and onto the wood floor. Unaccustomed to towering four inches higher than its usual latitude, my heel slips, and my ankle twists, and I go flying into the lap of an older gentleman at a nearby table. My elbow hits his drink and sends it toppling to the floor.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I grasp at the table, trying to stand in my heels without slipping in whiskey or stabbing the man in the eye with my black clutch. As I flail around, two strong hands hook under my armpits and haul me to my feet. I look up to find Alex standing above me, his expression unreadable.
I would kill to be in my pajamas right now.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, this time partly for Alex’s benefit.
“Are you okay?” he asks, checking my ankle for injuries and my dress for whiskey stains, thankfully finding neither.
“Yes, just mortified.”
After Alex sorts out the man and his spilled drink, we climb in an Uber headed into Manhattan. I start to reassure Alex I won’t repeat the same scenario in front of his boss, but then I trail off because I really shouldn’t be making promises in four-inch heels. Alex gives me a crooked smile and a shake of his head, which is probably the only response I can reasonably expect. I wonder if he’s regretting buying these shoes. And then I wonder if it would be too much trouble to ask the driver to stop at T.J.Maxx so I can buy a pair of sneakers.
Instead, I gaze out the window as the Upper West Side rolls by, a neighborhood we used to frequent when we started dating, but I haven’t visited since Alex was a student at Columbia. I remember our carefree days walking down Broadway to grab falafel at our favorite hole-in-the-wall before heading over to Central Park to eat it by the Reservoir. We’d end up back in Alex’s fifth-floor walk-up, making out on his futon and drinking the eight-dollar bottle of Merlot we’d picked up at the liquor store down the street.
These days, Alex is obviously a downtown-high-rise-with-all-the-amenities kind of guy, and when we arrive at the restaurant, he goes to the bar to get me a glass of champagne. But when he presses a kiss to my temple and tells me he’s glad I’m here, that familiar affection spreads across me.