Page 8 of The Love Wager

“These are boxers from that guy over there.” Missy nods toward a table full of men who barely look old enough to be in here.

“Disgusting. Get those away from our food.” I laugh, looking down at the card she’s handing to Taylor.

Tay adds the points to her notebook, but Missy’s too far down the list to worry about. The bar’s open layout lets me monitor the rest of our party. But I can’t find my competition anywhere.

“Where’s Chels?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, she had to go. Something about one of her kids throwing up everywhere and the sitter threatening never to return if she didn’t come home and deal with it right away,” Missy informs us.

I do a mental happy dance. I have this game in the bag now. Kicking my feet up on the bench across from me, I slip down and rest my head back. The alcohol’s taking its toll, and my eyes feel heavy.

“I can’t believe you’re getting married,” I say to the ceiling, my eyes at half-mast. “We’re still so young.”

“We’re not that young, Indie,” Tay rudely points out.

My head lolls to the side so I can look at her. “Twenty-five is young. I’m still getting my life on track.”

“Are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask defensively.

“Come on, babes. How many one-night stands can you have? Don’t you want to find your person.”

“There is nothing wrong with enjoying a variety of man meat.”

Her face contorts in disgust. “That’s fucking foul, Indie.”

I leave the sentiment hanging between us, but I’m too drunk to keep the giggle from escaping. Taylor joins in until we’re bothdoubled over the table, mascara tears running down our faces. A stitch in my side steals my breath and makes me calm down.

“No, but really,” I’m finally able to add. “Why is it so bad to focus on my career for a while? It’s the more difficult of the two. Getting men into bed has never been a chore. If I wanted a relationship, most of them would be jumping at the chance. They love me in LA, Tay.”

“Wow. Cocky much? You sound like you think every man will fall at your feet and beg for your hand in marriage.”

“They would if they knew what was good for them.” I shoot her a self-assured look.

She draws in a deep breath, and I know she’s had enough of my shit.

Bracing for her continued lecture, we’re interrupted by Maureen colliding with the end of the table. She waives a slip of paper that looks like it was torn from a server’s notebook in Taylor’s face.

“Fourteen,” she says, out of breath, collapsing into the booth across from us. She snatches the closest glass and downs its contents in one gulp.

Tay lets out a long whistle. “I’m shocked you could get this one done.”

“What is it?” I ask curiously. Mostly, hoping she brags about the points she just scored.

“Fourteen numbers from single people with a cat photo saved on their phone.”

I let out a bark of laughter. “Ouch, Tay. Way to make people worried they’re living up to theCat Personstereotype.”

“If the shoe fits,” she answers with a shrug. “And anyway, it has merit if she could get fourteen from this dwindling crowd.”

She’s right; the bar’s occupancy has dropped significantly, and we can finally hear each other talk without shouting overother’s conversations and the music. The sound of a cowbell rings through the room.

“Last call!” the bartender yells for everyone to hear.

Our table fills with the rest of the girls. Some hand over the proof of their conquests while others slide in, looking ready for the night to end. Not everyone is built to be out until two in the morning.

“Well, that’s it, girls! Time to count the final tallies and see who our winner is!”

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