Page 49 of Fireworks Flame
“I like it,” Phoebe says.
To my surprise, I find myself going still, my attention focused on the back seat, even though I don’t allow my eyes to follow it. I can’t help wondering if Deiss feels the same. He says nothing, though—a lack of response I might feel more acutely if his fingers weren’t still in my hair.
—
If the goalis to pretend we’ve just happened to discover Mac at lunch with his agent, the effort is a spectacular failure. To be fair, that’s more Mac’s fault than ours. Actually, it’s entirely on him. At the sight of us, he jumps up and waves with both hands, his legs hitting the edge of the table, causing all the glasses and dishes to rattle. Every head in the restaurant swivels toward him, then to us.
This might be fine if it were a fast-casual chain, but it’s not.Bash Crispy is a place to see and be seen, and not one of the three of us has a résumé to justify this kind of attention. You wouldn’t know it, though, by the way Phoebe stretches to her full height and leads us through the crowded tables. For all its exclusivity, Bash Crispy is deliberately casual rather than fancy, with bright colors and music loud enough to obscure confidential conversations. In her mismatched layered patterns, exposing just the right amount of smooth, taut skin, Phoebe fits right in.
Beside me, Deiss appears impassive to the scene, like a movie star who’s shuttled from one event to the next and has long since resigned himself to inquisitive eyes following him. I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of freshly baked bread. A handsome man, a few tables over, gives me an appreciative smile, and I flash one back before deliberately breaking eye contact. He looks vaguely familiar, likely an actor of the D-list variety.
Mac grabs Phoebe in a hug that lifts her off the ground and causes the patrons at the next table to flinch as if worried he’ll sling her around like a wrecking ball. It’s not the most irrational fear. His lunch companion, a thin, overly groomed man with eyebrows so heavily plucked they look like they’ve been drawn on with a calligraphy pen, rises from his seat.
“You made it,” he says, overpronouncing each word.
“He’s pretending like he invited you,” Mac says, grinning with delight at the revelation, “but he didn’t.”
“Friends never need an invitation,” the man says smoothly before turning toward me. “Although you’ve been hiding this lovely thing from me. Sebastian Rollbairn, at your service.” He proffers a hand.
“Olivia,” I say, sliding my hand into his. His skin is soft and a tad slippery, and I’d bet the last seventy-three dollars of Mac’shundred that he sleeps in overnight moisturizing gloves. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He holds onto my hand for an extra moment while he examines me, likely noticing the fingernails that haven’t seen a manicurist in more than two weeks and the absence of cheekbones, which, in the wake of my abandoned diet and personal trainer, even contouring can’t resurrect.
“Well, aren’t you just perfection personified,” he declares at the completion of his assessment.
“She’s already represented,” Deiss lies smoothly, shifting closer to my side, “and she’s deeply committed to her agent.” He holds a hand to his mouth as if telling a secret. “Things have gottenamorous.”
Sebastian’s eyes brighten at the gossip. “So, youarein the industry. Commercials? A soap?” He waves away the need for me to respond, slipping a card out of his pocket instead. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that sometimes romance and business prove incompatible. If you find yourself in that situation, you call me.”
“Of course,” I say, serenely. “Mac is always telling us what a dream maker you are.”
Sebastian beams. “Speaking of, I’ve got other clients who need my attention. But you all stay! Have some drinks on me. I only wish I could join you. But there are deals to be done, you know, and money to be made.” He winks at Mac as if he’s running off specifically to pad Mac’s bank account. Then he points a finger at Deiss. “Andyou. I hope you’re still considering my offer. I meant it when I said we could find someplace for you in this industry. You’ve got presence.”
Deiss nods and slaps him on the shoulder, making Sebastian’s eyes widen in surprise. His hand goes to the spot whereDeiss made contact, and his expression turns pleased, like he’s interpreted the sporty display of camaraderie as some kind of acceptance, rather than the blow-off it is.
“Dream maker?” Phoebe says the moment Sebastian is out of earshot. Her cackling laugh draws attention from the table next to us.
“You said to flatter him.” I grin, grabbing the chair next to the one she’s pulling out from the table. Mac slides a marinara-soaked plate on the chair to my right, but Deiss notices it before he sits down and shakes his head.
“Are you twelve?” Demonstrating his own maturity, he places it gently on the table and takes a seat. Then he ruins the effort by flicking a piece of bread crust at Mac’s head. It arcs through the air and, by what I assume is at least seventy percent luck, smacks Mac directly between the eyes.
“Children,” Phoebe admonishes. But her giggle undercuts the messages.
I’m able to keep a straight face until Mac lets out a high-pitched squeak of incredulity, his hand flying toward the spot of contact as if he’s been shot. A snort rips out of me, and he turns my way, cartoon-level betrayal on his face. Rather than dampening my amusement, his expression makes me laugh out loud.
“No drinks for you,” he says irrationally.
“What?” I point at Deiss. “He did it.
Mac looks at him. “No drinks for you, either.”
“Phoebe laughed first,” Deiss says.
Mac looks at her, the reluctance in his expression clear. “Sorry, baby. Fair’s fair.”
“And I’m sorry, too.” Phoebe reaches out and places her hand sympathetically on his. “But you’re the one who tried toruin Deiss’s pants with red sauce. That means no drinks for you, either.”
Mac’s face falls with disappointment, but to his credit, he accepts the ruling with a nod.
