Page 28 of Maverick Mogul

“What if you guess completely right?” Dylan asks.

Poppy smiles. “Charlie downs his whole whisky in one go. In front of God and Bunny Collier-Huntington and everyone.”

“I like this game,” Dylan says.

“I don’t,” Charlie protests.

“Tough,” I inform him. “We’re playing.”

We all scoot in, tightening our circle for privacy.

“Okay.” Giving a look around the room, Poppy sets her eyes on a beautiful middle-aged woman. She’s in a pleated taffeta skirt that falls elegantly to the floor—perhaps a Carolina Herrara design, if the Bassinger’s dry-cleaning taught me anything. A pearl necklace glints from beneath her collar. “I’m guessing… Paisley St. James.”

We all laugh. “Wrong,” Charlie crows.

“Oh, drat.” Poppy takes a big drink.

Dylan takes the next swing, nodding at a man with a trim gray mustache. He’s not wearing a top hat, but he looks like he could pull one off. “John Smith.”

“Oh, tricky,” Poppy says, excitedly.

Charlie quirks an eyebrow. “His nameisJohn.”

We all take a drink but Dylan, who looks pleased with himself. Then all eyes turn to me. I set eyes on a man wearing a gorgeous cravat. With a straight face, I say, “Bartleby Higginbottom.”

Dylan and Poppy burst out with laughter, but Charlie looks stunned.

“Oh my God,” Charlie says, raising his glass as if bracing to chug it. “It literally is. How could you know that?”

I almost believe him, in the half-second before his mouth splits into a devastating grin.

Oh.

They all burst out laughing, and I have to try and laugh along, even though a part of me is still reeling from Charlie’s seductive look.

“Let’s dance,” I blurt, needing to put a little space between us, so we take our tipsiness to the dance floor. Poppy wasn’t kidding—Dylan is a great dancer. The four of us have a blast for as long as the tape will hold on her shoes. When it eventually breaks, Poppy takes Dylan’s arm dramatically. “Take me home, lover.”

Charlie and I fall into a slow dance for the next Sinatra tune, and this time, I’m even able to sway in his arms without his nearness affecting me.

Much.

“I like Poppy and Dylan,” I say, “They seem great together.”

“They are,” he says.

“What’s that?” I tease. “High praise about a relationship? Knock me over with a feather.”

Charlie shakes his head, smiling. “Whrat do you say we get out of here?” he asks. “Get some real food.”

“Damn,” I quip, tipping my head back in ecstasy. “I love it when men talk sexy to me.”

He laughs, leading me off the dance floor. “C’mon. We’re walking distance to a great place I know.”

* * *

The place Charlieknows is a dive bar three blocks over—a windowless basement space with no pretention or frills. It’s a bar that could exist in Indiana or anywhere. We look ridiculous in our formalwear, but otherwise, I feel completely at home.

We settle onto barstools, and my first sip of cold, cheap beer is comforting. It’s not so different than wedding cake, really. I associate the taste with college parties, family reunions, beach vacations. Simple, happy times.

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