Page 15 of Forgot to Tell You Something

“Another one bites the dust,” I mutter from the cocoon of my hands.

“He seems interested.”

“Yeah, in Stefani. He’s driving her home, remember?”

Dan knocks the bar in front of me, making me raise my head to meet his gaze. “Tallulah, he’s interested in you. In fact, he was blatantly obvious about it.”

“Just because a man is friendly doesn’t mean he’s interested.”

Dan shrugs, shaking his head. “Maybe not, but uninterested men generally don’t offer up a ticket to a sold-out concert, either.”

“He left with Stefani. Trust me, there’s no way they’re not screwing tonight.”

“Whatever you say, Lu. I think this guy might surprise you.” He motions to my head. “Enough of the Strawberry Shortcake. Lose the pink.”

I smirk at Dan as I slide off the wig, letting my dark hair cascade down my back. “Better?”

“Much. I prefer you natural. You want another drink?”

I shake my head. What I want is Owen in my bed, but that’s not happening. “I have to get home. Hecate is waiting.”

“She is the coolest cat in the world.”

“You know it.” I stand up, giving Dan a kiss over the bar. “Thanks for being my ride or die.”

Dan ruffles my hair. “I have a feeling I’m going to be replaced soon.”

“Dream on,” I mutter, giving a wave as I walk out the door, but I can’t help but hope that my buddy is right.

3

Tally

“Stop judging me, Hecate,” I order as I try on a fifth outfit. It might seem pointless, since the man I’m trying to impress drove my friend home last night, but a girl has pride. I want to look good.

Who knows? Even if Owen is off the table, maybe he has an equally hot friend, just for me.

“A snowball’s chance in hell of that one,” I mutter, watching my cat curl up on my discarded clothing pile, stretching her black paws in front of her. Apparently, my social life isn’t exciting for her, either.

No matter what, Owen is a gentleman. The man texted last night, informing me that both he and Stefani arrived home safely and inquiring if I’d done the same. I assured him I had, complete with a smiley face and a thumbs-up emoji.

I didn’t ask where he spent the evening. First, it’s not my business, and second, I don’t relish acute nausea at the idea of him nailing my friend. Repeatedly.

My phone rings, and I glance at the caller ID. It’s Stefani. I hesitate, uncertain if I’m up for an all-access pass to her escapades with Owen.

Finally, morbid curiosity wins. “Good afternoon.”

“There’s a marching band in my head,” Stefani groans. “Sorry about last night, Lu.”

“It’s fine,” I lie. “Are you okay?”

“I will be. I’m definitely not twenty-five anymore.”

“Preaching to the choir,” I chortle. Stef and I are only six months apart in age, and we passed the quarter-century mark over a decade earlier. In summary, hangovers hurt.

“What are you wearing tonight?”

Odd segue.

---