Page 15 of Say Yes to the Nemesis
God help me.
Cora pulls her forward, guiding her to the table. Jay is rearranging chairs, and when all is said and done, there’s one open seat left.
The one right next to mine.
Wren circles around Calla and Cora, then drops into the seat beside me.
Of course, she does.
I give Wren a once-over, then turn to Bennett. He’s the owner of the establishment we’re sitting in.
“How’s the bar business these days?” I ask.
He nods and sips his beer. “It’s good. Things are booming, actually. I’m gonna have to hire more staff now. Wren was my go-to for part-time help around here, but I guess all good things must come to an end.”
I resist the urge to glance at her. “Yeah, I guess so. But I’m sure you’ll find somebody great.”
Bennett jerks his chin toward Reese, who’s weaving her way between tables toward us.
“I think Reese has a friend who’s going to interview for the position,” he says.
I look over at Reese as she slides into the seat across from me. Reese and I dated briefly. It was five and a half years ago, but I’m still a little sensitive about the topic.
She once told me I was hot but brainless, right after I got into my fifth bar fight that month. That was about ten minutes before she dumped me and told me we should just be friends.
She made the right call. That doesn’t mean I’m not still a little touchy about it.
I push the memory aside and tell Bennett, “I think you’ll find someone solid. Most of your employees have been here for years. Odds are definitely in your favor.”
Gabe launches into a conversation with Bennett about a board game they both play. My brain checks out immediately. Board games are not my thing.
I’m all action, always ready to move. Make me sit still and strategize? I dry out like a dead battery.
The waitress brings over a bunch of appetizers: French fries, chicken wings, quesadillas. I grab a whole quesadilla and a pile of fries, stacking them on a plate.
Wren leans over me to grab a fry straight from the basket. She smirks.
I glance down at my plate, trying to figure out what, exactly, she finds so amusing.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask.
She shrugs a shoulder, casual and careless, then tilts her head to look at me. “You don’t have to guard your food, you know.”
I glance down and realize I’ve got my hands bracketing the plate like I’m about to fight someone off. Defensive much? I roll my eyes.
“You don’t have to be such a nerd,” I shoot back, “but here we are.”
She sucks her teeth, clearly amused. “You know, just because you get by on being hot and dumb doesn’t mean the rest of us can. Some of us actually have to work for a living.”
I smirk. “Still pretending sarcasm is a personality, I see.”
I stuff a few fries in my mouth and chew, letting the burn sit for a second.
I know she’s got a degree in classics from Agnes Glenn College. Cute little liberal arts school just up the road.
But I’ve got a poli-sci degree from Emory, which is, let’s be honest, far better known.
“At least people have heard of where I went to school,” I retort.
