Page 32 of No More Billionaires

The Southern seemed to be hosting the city’s best and brightest tonight. I spotted the distinctive look of a group of state lawmakers laughing raucously at one table.

Others were filled with well-dressed business people and couples and groups of hipsters and fashionistas, all displaying that unique Nashville flair. It seemed like everyone was smiling.

Aric rose from his seat in a high-backed rounded booth as he saw us approach.

Always an impressive sight, he looked athletic and comfortable in a pair of jeans and a heathered blue sweater that called attention to his incredible turquoise eyes, even in the dim surroundings.

Our friend Mara had once referred to Aric as six-feet-four-inches-of-missing-Hemsworth-brother-hotness, and he did remind me of the Australian DNA lottery winners.

“Kenley—you look beautiful as always.”

His voice was perfectly unaccented Californian, a bit raspy but not as deep as Larson’s. He gave me a quick hug then turned his attention to Larson, hand extended.

“Hey, man. Good to meet you.”

As the guys exchanged greetings and made small-talk, Heidi and I claimed the seats opposite them.

She leaned over and whispered, “He’s even cuter in person. And he’s not a redhead. I’m shocked.” Her voice smiled in a teasing note.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I whispered back, shaking off her inference.

“Your type has apparently changed.”

I had told Heidi about my biggest high school and college crushes before I’d hooked up with Mark, who had strawberry blond hair. Both of them had been redheads, too.

In high school, it had been John—a couple grades ahead of me, athletic and adorable and carrot-topped. He’d called me Tigger and treated me like a little sister.

In college it had been Blake—another journalism major, hilarious and sweet and firmly middle-class, auburn hair. We’d gone out a few times before I’d become involved with Mark.

It hadn’t gone far, but I’d really felt a connection with Blake, and he’d seemed to like me a lot, too.

I’d been truly sorry to let him go after I’d met Mark, recognized him as the kind of guy I wassupposedto date, and accepted my fate.

A smartly-dressed waiter appeared and asked for our drink orders, saving me from having to continue the uncomfortable line of conversation.

“This place has fabulous appetizers,” Heidi advised, perusing the clipboard menu. “I think we should get some of everything.”

I rolled my eyes. “You and your chipmunk metabolism. If you want me to have any chance of fitting into that teensy bridesmaid dress you picked out, I’d better get a salad.”

“Shut up. You look darling, and there’s not a dress in the world you can’t rock.” She leaned against Aric’s shoulder. “Honey, make sure we get some of those steak biscuits and the My Way.”

She turned to me. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted this—the My Way is linguini swimming in browned butter with goat cheese and bacon lardons and two fried eggs on top.”

“I’ll order it, but I’d better see you eat some of it,” Aric warned.

He turned to Larson, explaining, “She’s shrinking down to nothing—by the time we get married in June, I’m going to be walking down the aisle with a shadow.”

“Hey— it’s Bride Law that I have to obsess about my weight and hair and fingernails—those pictures are going to be hanging on the wall for a long time to come, honey. Back me up, Kenley—oh—”

Heidi’s eyes widened as it hit her I could no longer speak on bridal matters with any authority.

She winced at me in silent apology and quickly changed the subject. “What looks good to you, Larson?”

He looked up from his menu. “Everything. I’m starved. I have a fast metabolism, too. My mother is convinced I’m starving to death without a cook there in Atlanta. I think she watches my show every night, searching for signs of malnutrition.”

He laughed, and Aric joined in.

“I hear you. Mine’s the same way, but probably worse—she’s Swedish. Has there ever been a mother anywhere who wasn’t convinced her grown child was starving without her?”

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