Page 45 of Bombshells
“Actually, I’ve given up pranks this year.” He smooths the lapels of his jacket. “Except if it’s for charity.”
“Very noble of you.” Fiona giggles.
“Look at this,” Charli says, rolling her eyes. “Neil Drake bid on a golf club. Who would have guessed?”
“He’s not winning,” I point out.
“We can fix that.” Charli grabs the pen out of Anton’s hand, and with an evil grin, she adds another bid to the sheet.
“Charli!”
“He can afford it,” she says. “With a name like that?”
“Neil?” I ask.
“His full name is Cornelius Harmon Drake the third. His grandpa made a fortune leasing private jets.”
“And you know this how?” Fiona asks.
“Google.” She puts down the pen. “Now let’s get our drink on.”
Bryce reappears with a tray full of drinks a few moments later. I help him pass them out, and then I take my chance to get him alone. “Would you take a walk with me?” I whisper. “I’m curious about what’s outside.” There’s a set of double doors open to some kind of patio. I see firelight and deeply cushioned sofas.
I turn toward the open doors, hoping my ploy works, and Bryce follows patiently. It’s quieter out here, which is good, because I have things I need to discuss.
But wow. The patio is walled with brick and topiaries in interesting shapes. It’s lit with torches, hanging strings of mini bulbs, and a wood fire burning in a giant hammered copper bowl. As I take it all in, the first strains of jazz music begin to play from inside the building.
My cocktail is ice cold against my hand, but in spite of the cool night air, I feel warmed from within. Tonight is such a welcome shift in my life. I have friends. I have my hockey team, where I may eventually make a contribution. I have a glamorous party in a bustling city.
And I feel beautiful. Fiona was right that dressing up could make a difference. I must be a simple, visual creature, too. Because I feel alive with possibility, whether Bryce can see it or not.
“Shall we sit?” I ask. “That looks cozy.” I point to a sort of hanging hammock chair that seems designed for couples.
“That? Is that furniture?”
Ah, Bryce. My cute little traditionalist. Some men need a push, Fiona had said, and I agree with her. But falling out of a hammock chair might not have been what she meant.
So I abandon the hammock thing and turn in the other direction. “Isn’t this a cool spot for a party?”
“Yes. But are you cold?” He eyes my bare shoulders, and I have to hold back my smile. Finally! The man isn’t blind after all.
“Not cold at all,” I say. “This is fun.” We continue our slow circuit of the patio together, as other partygoers also spill out of the building, drinks in hand, talking and laughing.
“How was practice this week?” Bryce asks. “Better?”
“Much,” I assure him. “I’m getting back in the swing of things. Coach told me yesterday that she was impressed with my work ethic.”
“Hey!” His eyes light up. “That’s great.”
“We scrimmaged today, and I only let in one to Scarlet’s three.”
“Magnifique!” Bryce is animated now because I’m speaking his love language—hockey.
“But that’s not what I wanted to discuss with you.”
“No? What, then?”
I take a deep, measured breath. “Us. I want to talk about us.”
