Page 52 of Not Just a Trick Play

Jenny dives into a monologue about the virtues of juicing and its effects compared to traditional workouts, her words turning into a distant buzz, like a fly circling a fruit bowl.

Barks erupt, and “Who Let the Dogs Out” slices through the Corrine’s description of Federal Hall. Yvonne’s phone. She checks her screen, cutting off Blockchain Bro with a classic “talk to the hand” then and scuttles off.

“Guess that’s her way of saying ‘paws’ on the conversation, huh?” Jenny snickers, drawing a surprised chuckle from me. Across her shoulder, I catch a flicker of something in Amelia’s eyes. Interesting. Very interesting.

Emboldened by the possibility, I give Jenny the full Jake treatment. “Tell me again, what was that about your smoothie recipes?” I ask, feigning newfound interest.

Her gaze lights up at my engagement, and I draw on a charm I hadn’t planned on using tonight. We fall into an easy banter. Jenny’s laughter has Amelia tuning in, her smile dimming a notch as she watches us. The moment our eyes lock, she promptly pivots to her own personal “Charmzilla.” I can barely hide a grin.

Yvonne bulldozes back onto the scene, quickly examining the fruits of her meddling—a pairing I’d call “Amelia and the Beast of Boredom”—before marching up to me. Jenny’s halfway into a passionate debate with herself on the merits of a Vitamix versus some Kuvings thing.

“That was Audrey. She needs me to dog-sit Queenie tonight. some kind of lab emergency.”

I follow Yvonne’s gaze to Amelia, still engaged with Mr. Talks-a-Lot. “I’m leaving her in your hands. Remember the plan.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I got a plan, all right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AMELIA

Stride and Seekhasn’t been the fruitful experience Yvonne promised. The initial set of chaps? Pleasant enough to begin with, but swiftly dismissed.

The first—a rather dashing architect—certainly had potential, but it wasn’t long before his endless chatter about pillars and porticos proved he had all the romance of a brick. Then came Mr. Tattoo, full of smiles and swagger. He almost had me, but, the moment “bartender” was uttered, my interest evaporated. Already had my fill of that cocktail, thank you very much.

I can’t seem to find anyone appealing here. Or it may very well be that my attention keeps wandering to Jake. Even incognito, he has his partners giggly and googly-eyed in no time.

All right, deep breath. Let’s have a proper go at this, then. I scan the group once more, ignoring the uneasy twist in my gut.

A tall, sandy-haired gentleman catches my attention. He’s in a crisp suit and paisley tie. Perhaps I should consider someone more put together? I approach and introduce myself. His name is Christopher, and he smiles back. Okay, promising.

When I ask him about his job, he puffs up. “I deal in derivatives trading,” he begins.

I try—I really do—to follow along. But by the time he’s explaining the third type of swap, I’m battling the urge to yawn.

I can’t help from peeking over his shoulder at Jake. The redhead he’s chatting up seems to be thoroughly enjoying herself, cozying up to him and giving him coy smiles. When she strokes his forearm, a tiny green monster stirs in my chest. Bet their discussion doesn’t include stocks of any kind.

I pull my gaze back to Christopher, redoubling my efforts to pay attention. “That sounds…interesting.”

His eyes light up. “Oh, it is. Let me tell you about the risk management strategies we employ.” He’s off again, and I’m nodding at what I hope are the right moments.

Corrine leads us to the following landmark, Delmonico’s on Broad Street, and I wish my financial guru farewell.

On to the next. A man in the plaid shirt has a “fresh from the farmer’s market” vibe that piques my curiosity. When I offer him a welcoming smile, he takes it as a cue to close the distance between us.

He introduces himself as Peter and tells me he’s visiting from Upstate New York. There’s an earnestness in his voice that’s endearing. “Oh, you should make the trip sometime in the fall. We’ve got the best apple-picking festival you can imagine. The whole town gets into it. There are tons of apple pie contests.”

I can’t help but be drawn into his enthusiasm. “How charming! I really should try some. At home, it’s apple crumble that’s more popular.”

We discuss the merits of crumble versus pie. Not the most engaging conversation but better than derivatives. Which is nice. Peter is nice. Perfectly palatable, really. It’s a pleasant change of pace.

I find my attention wandering, and force it back to pie—err, Peter—and smile and nod as he extolls the virtues of cider. Yes, I’m quite the scintillating conversationalist.

At the next stop, I bid him goodbye.

Another man, almost as tall as Jake, comes over. He’s in a blazer with deliberately-not-so-deliberate tousled sandy hair and an air of entitlement.

“Hi, I’m Brad.”

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