Page 42 of Champagne Fizz

“It’s ten in the morning,” I reply to his offer of rum, pretending the magazine’s cover is far more interesting than him.

“Day drinking is a Hawaiian pastime!”

“In your tiki-fantasy-land maybe.”

“You’d be surprised how many of those I can sell before noon,” Mason replies, “and I’m talking the non-virgin kind.”

My eyes cut to him and he laughs. I know Mason’s referring to my drink choice and preference for water, but lately that word feels like an accusation.

“Are you giving the wedding planner a hard time?” Connor’s voice chides, coming to my defense, and I wonder if Connor may, in fact, be the key to all this Flambé mess.

Mason turns with a smirk. “FYI: Good Tits Wedding Planner here doesn’t drink alcohol,” Mason explains, to which Connor gives me a genuinely curious look.

“Most people don’t get pie-eyed and embalmed this early,” Connor replies.

“Nope, she doesn’t drink at night either.”

Connor pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. “Which part pisses you off more, Mason? The fact that she’s got to be drunk to like you? Or the truth that she’s never going to like youthat way, because she’s totally into Simon.”

A zip of cold shoots up my spine.

Connor shoots me a wink that saysnothing’s a secret with him.

“Think about it, Mason,” Connor continues. “The accountant is always going to be Kendall’s type.” Connor leans forward and wipes the drip of coconut cream from my untouched coffee, then he proceeds to suck it off his finger.

“Kendall!” Mason exclaims, pointing at me with the discovery of my name, both triumph and rejection mixing through his expression. “And for the record, I do my own books.”

“Except you’re missing the sexy glasses and the pocket protector and the bow tie,” Connor explains, pointing to Mason’s shirt. “You prefer the eggplant emojis.”

I sneak a peek a Mason’s attire, which does, in fact, sport throbbing purple fruit.

“I probably own a bowtie,” Mason defends.

“With penises on it,” Connor replies, shooing Mason away, the whole time the two of them are volleying and returning insults like it’s a competitive tennis game. The whole I’ll-insult-you-to-tell-you-I-love-you way that guys talk to each other will never make sense to me.

“So …” Connor starts, turning to me once Mason’s gone. “Who are we here to talk about? Simon, Arie, or Ned?”

“None of them,” I say, pushing the coconut drink in his direction and nodding for him to have it.

“I don’t know Olivia well enough to be a good spy,” Connor admits, gesturing a thank you for the drink. “And I bet Simon would be a much more interesting topic.”

I scowl at Connor and he just grins, taking a knowing sip from my coffee as he leans back with a mischievous I-see-everything grin that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Am I really that obvious?

“I want to talk about your father,” I say, changing the subject, only Connor practically spits out his drink.

“Shit, way to ruin my morning!” He flicks sprayed coffee off his hand.

“I understand that there’s some family drama,” I jump in. “I just—”

“Family drama is an understatement.”

“Is it? This is your brother’s wedding,” I point out, handing him a napkin. “I can’t just stand by and let him not invite his parents to the biggest event of his adult life. This tiff between your father and Ned, it can’t be so big that there isn’t some middle ground? They’ll both regret it later. Yes, I understand your brother’s stubborn, but something’s got to give.”

Connor tosses his soiled napkin on the table. “I’m guessing you don’t know the whole story yet,” Connor says with a tightness to his tone. “So here’s your Cliffs Notes version. My father would rather I be in jail right now than make his firm look bad.”

I frown. He can’t mean that.

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