Her cherry red lips pinch. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about it when we were texting.”
I can’t resist teasing her. “Hmm… And here I thought maybe you were afraid I’d back off once I heard, ‘Cocks and Cocktails’.”
The corner of her mouth quirks. “Well, maybe not the cocktails.”
“It’s okay, Chester.” The urge to touch the soft curve of her cheek has me gripping my beer. “Thanks for inviting me.”
Chess fiddles with the strand of pearls around her neck. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Malcolm, our host. He’s an antiques dealer.”
“That explains a lot.”
Her eyes gleam. “Wait ’til you meet him. The man talks as though he was born here five decades ago, when I know he grew up in Cleveland.”
Malcolm turns out to be a middle-aged man sporting a thin, black mustache. He’s wearing a white suit with a black bowtie, and tells me he’s going for a Clark Gable Gone with the Wind look, but the image that comes to mind is Colonel Sanders. I keep that to myself as I shake his hand.
“You look familiar, Mr. Mannus,” he says, peering at my face. “Are you a model, perchance?”
The Colonel image gets stronger, and I have the sudden urge to eat fried chicken. “No, sir, I’m a quarterback.”
He gives me a blank look. “I could have sworn you were one of Chess’s boys.”
Chess’s boys? I glance at her, and she makes a face. “I don’t have boys, Mal.”
He waves a hand. “You know what I mean. Your model friends. ” He stares at me again. “A quarterback, you say?”
James cuts in. “Christ on a cracker. He’s a pro football player. And the reason he looks familiar to you is because there is a massive billboard of his smiling face on Canal Street.”
I cringe. That freaking ad. I hate driving by it. I see myself in the mirror every time I shave; I don’t need a fifty-foot reminder of what I look like.
Recognition dawns over Malcolm, and it’s clear that billboard has haunted him too. “Football. Ugh.” His mustache twitches. “I loathe football. All that grunting and sweating. And no actual sex involved.”
“Hits a little too close to home, does it?” a man at his side quips.
“You should know, Robert.” Malcolm rolls his eyes then zeroes in on me again. “Please tell me you have other interests, Mr. Mannus.”
Chess gives me a quick, worried look. But I don’t mind. I’m around sycophants enough as it is, and there’s no malice in his tone.
“Oh, sure,” I say lightly. “I like baseball and basketball too.”
He stares back at me, and I return his look with a bland smile. His lip twitches. “You’re cute.”
“I try.”
Purple Dress joins us. “I thought he was a stripper.”
I’m beginning to think this chick has a one-track mind.
“Strippers wear a costume, Trish,” Robert says with an exasperated drawl. “If he’d shown up in a football uniform, I’d give you that. Otherwise, it’s just wishful thinking on your part.”
Trish glares, but then gives a lazy shrug. “I wasn’t too far off, though. If he’s a football player, then he has been stripping for Chess.”
“Jesus, Trish,” Chess mutters.
Malcolm and Robert both perk up.
“We’re doing a charity calendar,” she explains, not at all flustered but clearly annoyed at Trish.
“I saw the photo on the news of that big guy with all the arm ink,” Trish says. “Too bad he didn’t show up. So freaking hot.”
Dex wouldn’t have made it through the front door of this place before turning tail and running.
Chess shots me a hesitant look. “Did you see the photos?”
I take a sip of beer. It’s getting warm and flat. “No. But I heard about them.”
Why didn’t I hear about them from you? It shouldn’t bother me that Chess didn’t say anything. But it does. It seems like a something a friend would definitely tell a friend.
But you aren’t friends, are you? One lunch and a couple of conversations makes you little more than brief acquaintances.
“They came out well, I think.” Chess is babbling now. “Meghan wants to use Dexter’s photo for December.”
“You gonna put a Santa hat on him?” I quip.
Her body jerks, and instantly, I feel like a shit. But she doesn’t reply. A woman bumps into her and they start chatting. I’m left to my beer and the curious stares of people circulating the room.
I’m starving. Smoke stings my eyes and fills my mouth. My feet hurt from standing, and I’m starting to feel like an old man because all I want to do is sit down where it’s quiet and comfortable. When yet another person bumps into me, giving me a double take, I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.
“Use the one upstairs, darling,” a pretty, older woman tells me when I discover the downstairs one is occupied. “Malcolm won’t mind.”
I find the bathroom with ease, but I don’t really need to use it. It had been an excuse to get away.
At the end of the hall, a set of French doors lead out to the upstairs gallery—a wide porch that runs the width of the back of the house. I step outside, closing the door behind me, and draw in a deep breath. Light from two wall scones illuminate the space. It’s quiet here, the sounds of the party dim. I take a seat on a wooden porch swing and let it slowly rock.
I shouldn’t be up here. I should find Chess and…go? Stick it out? I don’t know if I’m just feeling off tonight or if I imagined things about her that we’re never there.
The door opens, and I stiffen. But it’s Chess. And it isn’t a fluke, the way my pulse kicks up whenever I see her. Because it does it again, and all my senses attune themselves to her as if she’s my True North.
“There you are,” she says, stepping onto the gallery. “I was wondering if you’d run away screaming.”
Almost did. I stand. “Just getting some fresh air.”
“I don’t blame you. Sometimes I forget how much people smoke at these things.” Chess comes close, and I see that she’s holding a plate covered with a napkin. “Makes my throat hurt.”