Page 14 of Champagne Fizz

“A business drink,” I splutter. “You know, to uh … sort out how this is going to happen without turning into a disaster.”

“This?” Simon’s eyebrow hitches, his tone insinuating I meanus.

“The wedding, of course,” I clarify, even though there’s a hook to his smile that makes my insides twist.

“I’ve put you on the calendar,” Simon says, turning his laptop around to show me the calendar. “The 28th. This is already happening.”

“You know what I meant,” I insist, my hands finding my hips.

“Would that be the fact that you hate my restaurant, or—”

“I said I wanted to apologize for that,” I say, leaning forward over his desk. “I didn’t know who you were in the elevator. I just—I—”

“Wanted to impress me with your negotiating skills?” Simon’s eyes flick up with a flirty smile, and the Mount Vesuvius of heat under my skirt is almost out of control.

“Obviously, my negotiation skills suck.”

“They could use improvement.” He nods.

“You’re not supposed to agree so quickly,” I huff, squeezing my thighs.

“You’re not supposed to be so argumentative when you’re asking for my help.”

“I’m not asking for help!”

“Oh? So, you already know how to keep Arie from walking all over you?” He spears me with his sexy boy-next-door eyes. “Does that mean that offer for a business drink was just a ruse so you—”

“Okay, yes!” I concede, cutting him off before he says something that will force me to excuse myself to the bathroom. “Your business partner is a raging—”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Simon holds up his hands in defense. “That’s my best friend you’re about to call a word that rhymes with witch.”

“Actually, I was going tousethe word witch,” I defend. “I’m not a brute.”

“Doesn’t say the B-word, huh?” His eyebrows raise. “Just like saying fuzzing instead of—”

“It’s called a minced oath,” I explain, tugging at the top button of my suit. “It’s when you replace a swear word with—”

“Minced oats? Is that a cereal?”

“Oath!” I correct. “And yes, that’s what it’s called.”

“Of course, it is.” He mock nods. “Replacing swear words with ones that are perfectly cute and adorable, befitting a woman who wears canary yellow and has the last name Hart.”

“I was born with that last name.”

“Maybe,” he says, getting up and walking around his desk toward me. “But the fashionable suit”—he plucks my lapel—“and the pun-ny wedding business name were a choice.”

“In the same way a best friend is a choice?” I reply, stepping back so his hands aren’t so close to me.

He smiles at that. “Touché.”

“I’m sure there’s something wonderful and redeemable about your best friend,” I say, trying to be as tactful as possible and failing miserably.

“You’re sure, huh?”

“Look—” I grind my teeth as Simon peers over his glasses, smiling like he’s having too much fun flustering me. And sweating unicorns, heisflustering me. “I’d really appreciate some help—”

“Reigning Arie in?”

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