Page 6 of Rachel Weiss's Group Chat
Noting that Sumira’s glass was empty too, and that her attentive boss had been replaced by a strapping Pakistani youth who could not have been over the age of twenty-three, I mouthed that I was off to get us more drinks. She nodded and flipped her hair, and I swear I saw theinstantthat poor boy fell in love.
I’d been at the bar for 1.5 seconds when I heard a low voice just behind my ear. Goose bumps exploded down that side of my body.
“Happy holidays.”
I glanced demurely over my shoulder. “How very War on Christmas of you.”
His lips opened in surprise, and he half laughed. Clearly I had startled him with my cunning political satire.
“I’m kidding.” I turned to face him. He didn’t hide the quick glance down at my—in truth, superb—cleavage. “Rachel Weiss. I’m here with Sumira Khan.” I held out my hand. He took it to his mouth and kissed it.
“Stephen Branson. Senior account exec. Sumira’s a great girl.”
The casual condescension in his voice took him down several notches in my estimation. I tossed him a dazzling smile and held up the two fresh drinks, indicating that I had other places to be.
“Nice to meet you.” I then wove back through the crowd.
When I got back to where I’d left Sumira, she was nowhere to be found. Having no desire to stand there looking like a sad sack who’d misplaced her friend, I downed Sumira’s drink—the cranberry fizz really was delicious—and disposed of the evidence on a nearby table. Stephen Branson was sure to come looking for me,and I was still standing alone twiddling my thumbs. There was no one I could foist my conversation upon, surrounded by beautiful sales-type people all engaged in snug chitchat. There was a gleaming dance floor in their midst that was being utterly wasted.
And then, like a gift from God or the DJ, a Beyoncé song came on. I tossed my drink back, straightened my shoulders, and led the charge.
In truth, I had assumed there would be a general swarm toward the dance floor, but apparently I was the only one who could not resist the siren call of Queen Bey. Nevertheless, I persisted. I shimmied and rolled, letting the music carry me away. A peek through my closed eyelids showed that a (small) handful of people had been inspired by my leadership and begun to dance as well. The DJ was, I think, transfixed by my moves, because he transitioned right into another Beyoncé song. I punched the air victoriously and bobbed along to the new beat. And then I felt a hand on my hip.
“May I join you?” Stephen Branson smirked down at me, his eyes glinting naughtily.
The way he asked so politely, and the bad-boy look on his face, sent him soaring back up many, many notches.
“If you must.”
And oh, he did not disappoint. Quite nimble on those WASPy ankles, was Stephen Branson. He matched me step for step, roll for roll. He drifted closer, until the front of him molded to the back of me, and I felt his smooth cheek on the side of my face, felt his hot breath, smelled his cologne, and effectively soaked my panties. And then he flipped me around so we were face to face, gripping one hand tightly and clutching me close with the other, one leg grinding between mine. I had become, in an instant, the heroine fromDirty Dancing: Havana Nights, all my teen dreamscoming true. I stared into his eyes, powerless—surely he was not from Seattle. Men like him didn’texistin my world.
When the song ended, he held my hand firmly and dragged me off the dance floor toward a side door. I followed like a sweaty, lust-ridden puppy.
The night air was frigid, and Stephen wrapped me in his jacket. We had stumbled out onto a deserted patio.
“Whoareyou?” Stephen smiled, still panting slightly.
“Rachel Weiss. Poor memory?”
“Trust me, I remember your name. I’m just wondering why I haven’t met you before.”
“Hmm.” I gazed into the darkness. “Probably because I’m very busy and important.”
“Of course.” He drew a slim vape pen out of his pocket. “Do you mind?”
“Not if you share.”Why? Why am I like this?
He took a puff and let out a cloud of strawberry-scented vapor, then passed the pen to me. I inhaled the way I did with my weed pipe and sputtered as the sickly-sweet smoke hit the back of my nose and throat. I shoved it back into his hands and hid my coughing attack in my elbow.
He laughed. “First time?”
I gave a noncommittal grunt, still coughing.
He took another puff, then stashed it back in his pocket.
“Are you from around here?” I asked once I was able to breathe again.
“No.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I grew up in Chicago. But I moved here for college and I’ve been here ever since.”
