Page 30 of Latte Girl
“You made it!” he exclaims, and then runs his eyes up and down the length of me. “Shit, Hailey. I hope you don’t mind me saying it, but you lookamazing.”
“Have anything to say about your two other dates?” croonsBrittney.
Steve slides his gaze over to her and Trisha as if noticing them for thefirsttime.
“You all look stunning,” he says diplomatically. “Anyone need to check theirjackets?”
Brittney and Trisha keep theirs, but I let Steve help me out of mine and we wait as he takes it to the coat check after insisting on doing itforme.
“He wants you, Hailey,” Trisha announces, giving me a nudge. Brittney nods inagreement.
“All he wants is to catch up over a few drinks,” I protest, but after seeing the way Steve looked at me, I don’t believe myself anymore thantheydo.
Steve comes back and leads us over to one of the couch alcoves, where four men in their twenties and thirties wearing expensive looking dress shirts are alreadysitting.
“Look who I found,” says Steve, as we all takeseats.
Introductions are made between everyone and we’ve started discussing how terrible of a name ‘Dark Brown’ is for a cafe when a waitress who looks like she belongs in a Gucci ad comes and asks whatwe’dlike.
“You have to try the flirtinis,” says one of the guys. “It’s not Flirtini Fridaywithoutone.”
“Or five,” says another, and everyonelaughs.
Brittney, Trisha and I all look between one another. We nod and order a flirtini each. I make sure to ask for watersaswell.
The drinks turn out to be pretty tasty and Steve’s friends are more entertaining than I expected. From the stories they tell, I gather that they’re all as unenthused about working for Knox Security as the cafe staff is about working for DarkBrown.
Brittney appears to be in her element, flirting up a storm. She’s like a trained sniper, all stealth and precision, and soon has every guy at the table wrapped around her littlefinger.
I hold my own conversation with Steve, while keeping an eye on the very inebriatedTrisha.
“You still planning on going to school?”heasks.
“That’s the plan,” I say, and then shrug. “At least, that’s mymom’splan.”
“I think it’s a smart idea,” he tells me, taking a sip of the fresh flirtini that just arrived for him. “Remember that writing thing you wanted to do? Now that wouldn’t have been smart. I didn’t say it at the time, but I’m glad you neverdidit.”
I feel a burning inside me that’s more than just thealcohol.
“I still might,” I say, trying to keep myvoiceeven.
“Oh,” he replies, looking embarrassed. “I mean, I just think it would be better to try that once you’ve gone to school and have afallback.”
Trisha comes to the rescue by tapping me on the arm and stage whispering, “I havetopee.”
“I should go with her,” I tellSteve.
I pull a teetering Trisha to her feet and almost stumble myself. The room spins and I realize I’m drunker than Ithought.
“There’s so many cute boys here,” Trisha coos as we pass thepackedbar.
I keep a hold on her arm, as much for her balance as formyown.
“They all look like assholes,” I mutter. It’s just past 11:30 and house music is blasting from the DJ booth at the end of the room, where a few people have started to trickle onto the dancefloor.
Steve’s comment about my blogging idea has set me on edge. He’s one of the only people I’ve ever mentioned it to. I remember telling him about it as we lay spooning in bed one lazy Sunday morning, talking about the future. Hearing him bring the topic up sobluntlyhurt.
Thankfully there’s no line in the bathroom. Trisha and I lock ourselves into adjacent stalls. I sit down and press my head against the cold metal ofthedoor.
