Everything is set, my choice. The meeting place, the dining (if we get that far), the final destination. I’m grateful for the condensation on the whiskey glass cupped in my hands. It hides the fact that my palms are sweating worse than the ice.
I’m also grateful for the easy, warm glow the alcohol has given me. That’s why I showed up forty minutes early. Who wouldn’t need a little shot of courage? It’s two on one, their turf. I want to see them before they see me.
The last few drops of Red Label still burn my throat when I spot them coming in, ten minutes early. They look like an ordinary couple, out for an intimate drink after they’ve been apart for an entire day, separated by ordinary obligations. But I know better.
I know why they are really here. It’s exciting, this secret knowledge.
A smile I can’t contain spreads across my cheeks. A quick wave gets their attention and earns me two smiles in return.
“Ronnie!” She squeals my name and slides around the long curve of the booth to throw her arms around me.
Her scent sets off tiny detonations across my skin. “Giselle!”
We press awkward, unsatisfying kisses against each other’s cheeks before disentangling.
He slides up next to me on the other side, trapping me between them. His lips are warm and in control when he kisses my cheek.
“Simon.” I encourage his contact, placing a firm hand to his cheek. After all, he’s part of the deal. The stiff bristle of his short beard crackles under my palm and tingles against my face for an instant before I let go.
The skinny bitch of a waitress who’s ignored me since I arrived shows up with surprising speed.
“Can I get y’all somethin’ ta drink?” She snaps her gum and makes big eyes at Simon.
He laces his fingers together and leans across the table on his forearms. “Jameson neat, all around.”
A quick glance at Giselle tells me she finds Simon’s effect on the waitress as funny as I do. The waitress doesn’t seem to notice; she only has eyes for Simon. With an exaggerated turn, she bounces off toward the cocktail station.
“Ronnie.” Simon turns his attention my way and takes my hand in both of his.
“How was your flight?”
“The flight was as good as you could expect for someone who hates to fly.”
Giselle squeezes closer to me and lays her head on my shoulder. “I hate flying, too. Simon says it’s because I’m a control freak.”
Panic flashes through me in warm rush. Things are moving too fast.
“Here you go.” The waitress deals out three cheap cardboard coasters with a matching trifecta of drinks. “Twenty-four dollars.”
