Page 11 of The Publicity Stunt
Catch up? The phrase almost makes me laugh. Almost. I don’t want to get coffee and catch up with Parker. He’s the last person I ever thought I’d have to catch up with. This is—was—my best friend. My favorite person in the entire world. I can’t pretend to make small talk with him on a Sunday afternoon like we’re casual buddies who just “lost touch” after college.
A bitter taste rises in my throat and spreads all over my tongue. “I need to go.”
He laughs. Parker actually laughs. “No.”
“No?” I parrot.
“No,” he repeats. “I’m not going to run into you like this and then let you walk away again. We need to talk, April.”
My stomach squirms. “I have to go. I’m … I’m already late,” I say and just as I’m about to walk away, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him, my face only a few inches away from his. I look down at our hands, convinced there’s going to be a burn mark on my skin once he lets go.
“Wait,” he says with a heightened sense of urgency. “Let me look at you for a second, yeah?” His eyes travel down my teal pantsuit, then back to my face.
“I can’t do this right now,” I whisper.
“I thought I’d never see you again. I’m just trying to take it all in.”
I nervously look to the side and nod. “Okay.” Okay?
“It’s not okay,” Parker says. His hand is still gripping mine. “Nothing about this is okay, Chere.”
Chere.
It suddenly becomes too much. I can’t do this. I can’t.
I won’t.
Pulling my hand back, I lift it to my chest, rubbing my fingers over my knuckles. “I’m sorry, I really need to go,” I say and Parker’s eyes go dark. “It was, um … it was good seeing you.”
Before he can make another protest that’ll for sure melt my dwindling resolve, I spin around and scurry in the opposite direction.
To my relief, Parker doesn’t come after me.
* * *
The minute I enter Paddy’s Pub, my eyes widen with shock.
“Holly!”
She looks up from behind the bar, a cocktail shaker in hand, and smiles. Her short blond waves are tied back in a loose bun and she wears a plain white tee with the slogan “My Eyes Are Up Here” sprawled across her boobs.
I approach the bar and pull out a stool, its legs scraping the floor. “You’re behind the bar.”
“And you’re late,” Holly states, her tone cold. She sets the shaker down and snaps her fingers at one of the bartenders—someone who actually works here. “Grab me some coffee beans from the kitchen.”
No “Please.” No “Can you do me a favor?” None of that crap.
Just “Grab me some coffee beans.” Simple and to the point. My confusion only escalates when the bearded man actually complies without any hesitation.
“Are you making me an espresso martini?” My brows squish together.
She shrugs and strains the brown liquid from the shaker into a conical glass. “Didn’t you want one?”
“Yeah …” I don’t sound very sure of myself.
The man returns with literally two coffee beans and Hol shoots him a dry smile. “Then yes, I’m making you an espresso martini.” She slides the glass toward me.
I immediately reach for it and take a sip. Then another. And another, chugging the drink till there’s nothing left but the tiny coffee beans at the bottom of the glass.
