Frenemies(39)
“Don’t start with me,” Georgia warned as I locked the door.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I murmured. I waited for Irwin to emerge from his den, but apparently even he was cowed by Georgia in stilettos.
“I’ve just spent way too long in the exclusive company of Chris Starling and my boyfriend can’t seem to return a voice mail message in under seventy-two hours,” Georgia snarled. “I had to deal with Logan Airport on a Friday, don’t get me started on the traffic, and I am not in the mood for any shit, okay?”
“Wait—what?” I zoomed in on the crucial bit of information in that little rant. “Your boyfriend? When did this guy become your boyfriend and why wasn’t I informed?”
“We can talk about that later, at the party,” Georgia said, “because what you’re not hearing is that I need a cocktail.” She pointed her finger at me. “Right now you just need to start thinking about your reasonably attractive, brand-new boyfriend, the one you’re about to meet.”
“The one who will save me from myself, like in all the fairy tales?” I asked in an over-the-top voice that suggested I was disgusted at the very idea. But I was a single female on the verge of thirty, so in the unlikely event that Prince Charming did pop up at Georgia’s office party, it’s not as if I would slap him down just to retain my feminist street cred. Tattered as it was. Though I would insist on saving myself, for sure.
“It’s entirely possible that you might need saving tonight,” Georgia barked at me. “And not from yourself.”
“I can’t wait,” I lied, and we were on our way.
Georgia fetched us each a cocktail when we arrived, and I sipped mine as she did a few perfunctory rounds of Schmooze and Smile. The big conference hall on the top floor of the firm had been given over to the Waterbury, Ellis and Reardon version of holiday fun. Fir trees were topped with menorahs in a gesture toward inclusion, no doubt offending all parties. The main attractions were the bar and the buffet table, while a band played sedately in the background. Some in the crowd were glammed up, while others looked as if they’d just returned from court. Harried-looking paralegals appeared periodically—in suits that looked rumpled, possibly because they’d slept in them—and whispered into various partying ears. Despite the fact it was a work event, I knew from experience that it was only a matter of time before the liquor flowed just that little bit too freely. The dancing would start, some first-year (or tenth-year) associate would become delightfully inappropriate, and the real fun would begin. Until then, everyone was schmoozing their ambitious behinds off, and I half expected William Shatner and Candice Bergen to come waltzing out from behind the nearest potted plant.
“You must be Gus,” a voice said in my ear, and I turned, assuming it was Georgia’s (apparent, and sure-to-be-odious) “boyfriend.”
Instead of the sleek, toothy guy I remembered—very vaguely—from the Park Plaza, an older man stood in front of me. He was about Georgia’s height, and had the liveliest pair of brown eyes I’d ever seen. It took me a moment to notice anything else about him—his eyes danced with merriment and cleverness, so that he seemed to be lit from within.
“Hi,” I said, immediately charmed. I had no idea who he was.
“I’m a psychic,” he said, very matter-of-factly. “I discerned your name from the ether.”
I almost believed it, too.
“Or I told it to him,” Georgia snapped in exasperation. She shook her head at the guy. “Why can’t you just introduce yourself like a normal person?”
“It’s hard to believe I’m her boss, I know,” he said. Supposedly to me, but he was looking at Georgia. “Beneath all that bluster, she’s really impressed with my authority.”
“Gus,” Georgia said, waving her hand at him. “This is Chris Starling.”
“I know Georgia uses other names, most of them inappropriate, but you can call me Chris,” he told me. I wasn’t sure, but I thought my jaw might have dropped open in astonishment. Not that either one of them was paying me any mind. They were far too caught up in their banter.
“And again—hilarious,” Georgia was saying, rolling her eyes.
“And there’s Bob Young, giving me the ‘come worship’ eye,” Chris Starling said, only grinning at her. “Off to the salt mines I go.”
“My lord,” Georgia said when he walked away. “Isn’t he the most annoying man you’ve ever met?”
It took her a long moment to stop frowning after him, and to look at me.
I searched her face. “Georgia, you told me he was short, fat, balding, and horrible!”
Georgia’s gaze was blank.
“He is,” she said.
“Sure,” I agreed. “Except for the part where he’s not short at all, not fat at all, and has the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s got Gandalf eyes or something. It’s like he knows things.”
“What are you talking about?” Georgia asked. “Did you just say Gandalf??? And what do you mean, he’s not fat? Believe me, maybe it’s hidden behind his jacket tonight, but the guy hardly has abs of steel.”
“Maybe he has a stomach, which is very different from being fat.” I enunciated each word carefully. “And maybe he’s secretly the boss from hell, but he seemed nice. Charming, actually. Not horrible and nasty at all!”