Page 31 of Against the Clock

“But the mimosa first, please. The woman’s got gossip to give me.”

“Sure thing,” the waitress says. “I’ll bring the petite almond croissants now, too.”

“Thank you,” we chorus.

“Spill.” Cameron grins, then flexes her hands like a cat, inspecting her sparkling nails. Today, they’re a shade of frosty blue, thick holographic flakes glimmering throughout them.

They remind me of Daniel Harrison’s eyes. My face turns beet-red as memories of him slide through me.

The candles in the middle of the table gutter as the strength of my sigh batters them.

I stare at Cameron.

She stares at me, one eyebrow raised. Waiting.

It’s a gossip standoff. Except she’s the only one with a loaded pistol.

“How did you know?” I finally ask. There’s no use in pretending like I didn’t just have the best sex of my life.

“Well, for one, you have that post-orgasm glow. Or at least you did, before you turned bright red. Really, they should figure out how to bottle it. Illuminating primer my ass, give me good sex any day.”

“Illuminating primer’s not supposed to go on your ass,” I say.

“And two,” she continues, grinning at my joke and holding up two fingers. “It’s all over BeaverTok. The Hot Dams are going wild with conspiracy theories and fan cuts. Your Uber driver recorded you two kissing. And someone in some deli uploaded a story on Instagram with you two holding hands.”

My stomach drops. My heart stops.

I clutch the table.

The waitress reappears, as if summoned at exactly the worst time, as I feel the bottom dropping out of my very soul. Now all I need for the restaurant double whammy is the manager to come over and ask me how my meal is before I’ve even ordered.

She sets the mimosa down and I sling it back, coughing from the champagne but keeping it down.

The waitress clears her throat. “Okay then. That kind of a morning?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Cameron says in a sing-song voice.

“I want the house special, please,” I manage, curbing a hiccup with the back of my hand. “Eggs over easy, hashbrowns, sourdough, and bacon.”

“Fruit or oatmeal?” she asks.

“Fruit. And I want a waffle. Extra syrup.”

“You got it.”

“Fuck me,” I say under my breath.

The waitress gives me a strange look. I’m too upset to apologize.

Cameron rattles off her order. My fingers wrap around her mimosa and I slam it back, too. I press my hand against my mouth, trying not to burp.

They both stare at me.

“BeaverTok thinks I’m having sex with Daniel Harrison,” I tell the waitress. “The Hot Dams are after me.”

She cringes in sympathy. “I’ll be back with another round of mimosas.”

The Hot Dams, the fanbase of the Wilmington Beavers, are notorious. You’d think they would chill the hell out since the Beavers have had a ten-year losing streak. I mean, they’ve won games here and there, but they haven’t made it to the AFL playoffs in over a decade. Things I only know because my dad makes sure to rattle off the stats to me at least once a month.

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