Page 77 of So That Happened

“Ahem!” Vanessa’s sharp exclamation snaps me out of my insanity. The room slowly, fuzzily, comes back into focus.

I forgot she was here.

I whirl around to the blond HR specialist, who looks, well… miffed. Super miffed.

“Shall we go and look at some designs tomorrow after work then, Annie?”

I look at Annie. Remember our not-a-date dinner.

“I can’t, sorry,” she addresses Vanessa but her eyes flicker to me. “I’m busy tomorrow night.”

21

ANNIE

“Prishhhhhhhhhhh!” I wail in the direction of my phone, which is propped up on my dressing table, on speakerphone.

“Annnnnnnnnnnnnnn!” she wails back, but in a high-pitched, poor imitation of my whine.

“That wasn’t even close,” I tell her, peering into the mirror as I attempt to contour my cheekbones. Pout the lips, suck in the cheeks, dust the brush over the hollows…

Ugh. Why, oh why, does my bronzer make me look like I spilled cocoa powder all over myself?

“It was perfect. An Oscar-worthy impression. Maybe I should go on your date tonight for you, Liam wouldn’t even know the difference.”

“It’s not a date,” I hiss, looking over my shoulder to see if there are any skulking eavesdroppers in the hallway (also known as my mother and her book club pals). Though the air doesn’t smell like Elnett hairspray, Chanel Number 5, or Chardonnay, so I think I’m safe. For now.

“What are you wearing?” Prisha asks. There’s rustling on her end of the phone, followed by munching. Clearly, this is dinner and a show.

“What are you, some kind of payphone pervert?”

“I’m just a bestie with an excellent B.S. detector.” I hear the smile in my friend’s voice. Followed by more crunches. “Who happens to know that this is, indeed, a date. Goodness, these chocolates are delicious.”

“It’s not a date. It’s dinner with my bosses. Plural.”

“Dinner with your twohotbosses… Seriously, Ann. This is sounding more and more like a saucy book to me!”

“Prish, that’s disgusting. They’re brothers. This is a work event.”

“Okayyy. If it’s just a ‘work event’, what you wearing?”

“Clothes.”

“Nice ones?”

“Ish.”

What Prisha doesn’t need to know is that I spent three hours after work yesterday shopping for a dress. And then proceeded to spend way too much money on said dress.

She doesn’t need to know that at all.

I only did it because Luke said that they had a reservation at Petit Soleil. I googled it, and it’s, like, super fancy. I didn’t own anything even close to appropriate so Ihadto go shopping, didn’t I?

“Fine, prove me wrong!” Prisha warns, and seconds later, my phone buzzes with a request to switch the call to Facetime.

Foiled!

I stare in the mirror, analyzing my dress from every possible angle. It looks okay, right?

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