Page 146 of Catfish

Chase furrows his brows. “I write your contracts.”

“And I wrote this one.” I swipe my beer back up and take a generous swig. One of the so-called best, dumbest fucking ideas I’ve ever had. Hence, why Chase writes my contracts.

“Poor woman,” he jeers. “Do I know her?”

Not exactly, but she knows you.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Sounds like I need to. She sounds like a riot.”

Yeah.

That shit isn’t fucking happening—for either of us.

? Fight For Your Right — Beastie Boys ?

Me: Are you sure you’re okay for about two hours?

Sadie: Yes, go away.

Me: If you need me, just call, I’ll try to be back ASAP.

Sadie: Just go have fun, Mila and I have this.

Me: See you soon.

I drop my cell into my clutch and open my car door, handing the keys to the valet who has been impatiently waiting for me to step out. I booked an extravagant five-course meal for Emmy with some friends that Wade gave me only three days ago. In which he proceeded to order me in so many words to be in attendance at this event.

I didn’t fight him about it.

Honestly, I don't have the energy or the headspace to. Sadie, Mila, and I have been swamped with the planning for this sixteenth birthday party, which is happening tonight, we just got booked for a surprise birthday party for a senator's wife, and I've been busy making sure Wade's fundraiser went off without a hitch.

My phone has been going off the hook over the last two weeks with caterers, DJs for the music, the lightning, the chair, and table rentals (because Wade wanted solid wood tables, not plywood and folding chairs), and everything else imaginable under the sun. Making this one of the best fundraisers the Democratic party has ever seen.

If I can pull the damn thing off.

Walking into the restaurant and giving my name to the hostess, who is dolled up to the nines, I'm escorted to a private room in the back that I reserved by throwing Wade's name around.

It's beautiful. Absolutely stunning. The restaurant is dim and intimate, with candlelight on every table. There is a lovely violin playing in the corner with waiters and waitresses dressed in classic black and white, and the room smells like fresh-cut flowers.

The hostess opens the closed door to the private room as I make sure my black cocktail dress is straight. The moment I walk in, Emmy’s voice comes booming through the space.

“Rea!” She stands from the head of the intimate setting that is lit by more candles than I have ever seen in my life, which I'm thinking could be a huge fire hazard. She runs to me, and when her body slams into mine with a hug, she exclaims, "I'm so freaking happy you're here."

I hesitantly return the hug, not used to the whole girly, we-can-always-touch-each-other thing, and give her a little squeeze.

“Happy belated birthday, Em,” I regress as she pries herself from me. “You look beautiful.”

Her dark pink dress outlines her curves and looks amazing with her blonde hair piled on top of her head with two strands cupping her slim face.

“Um, so do you,” she retorts, eyeing me up and down. “That dress is killer.”

“Thanks.”

She grabs my hand. “I saved you a spot.” She lowers her voice. “Away from Wade and right next to me.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” I whisper before she introduces me to her friends. I sit on her right side, glancing around the table until it lands on the devil himself.

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