The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(28)

“Mm-hmm.”

“If you’d had kids when Beck mis-tweeted you, would you have helped him get his reputation back the same way you did?”

“So your reputation’s in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Mackenzie plops down on my other side. “What did you do?”

“I burned the new Fireballs mascot.”

She sucks in a breath and her face drains of all color, and the next thing I know, I’m bent double in my seat with a searing pain in my ear. “That is not funny. Take it back. Take it back right now.”

Okay, yeah, that’s too far. “I take it back. I take it back.”

“Now say the Fireballs are the best baseball team ever.”

“The Fireballs are the best baseball team ever.”

“Agree to do a free concert opening night.”

“I have to check my—ow! Okay. Calendar cleared. I’ll do it.”

“Show up at my sister-in-law’s apartment in New York on Christmas Eve dressed as Santa and give her a signed copy of every one of your albums, Bro Code years included.”

“Giselle? A little help here?”

“Promise, Barry,” Mackenzie hisses.

“My mom will miss me.”

“Your mom would be horrified by the filth spewing out of your mouth.”

“Let him go, hot stuff.” Elliott’s whispering behind us. “We’ll take him behind the bookstore and make him pay for whatever he said to you later. Don’t let him ruin Henri’s night. Luca says this is her biggest event to date.”

Mackenzie lets go of my ear.

Sarah’s lips are pinched together, her shoulders shaking like she’s suppressing laughter.

And we’re getting weird looks from the women in the row in front of us.

“Everything okay?”

Shit. That’s Ingrid’s friend. Portia. The one who helps with her kids.

“Brothers.” Mackenzie rolls her eyes. “They are such a pain in the ass. Always tagging along for free cookies.”

I grunt an agreement.

Portia’s eyes narrow, and I can’t decide if the look she’s aiming at me means hurt my friend and I’ll kill you, or you better do something nice for her, because she deserves it.

If it were me in her shoes, I’d be thinking both.

I sink deeper in my seat.

Ingrid claps her hands at the front of the room, then signals something with her hands, and most everyone’s attention turns to her and Nora Dawn.

“I didn’t know it would be this big,” I whisper to Sarah.

“I didn’t either,” she whispers back. “Mackenzie asked me to come in case no one else showed up for Henri. We’re guessing it’s a combination of the bookstore’s customers and Henri’s fan base. Either way, it’s pretty awesome.”

So is watching Ingrid in her natural habitat.

She has a sixth sense for knowing when to pass the cookie plate around again, when to steer the conversation back on track, when to offer someone a coffee refill, and when to rescue the author when someone says something awkward and makes Rossi twitch like he’ll take out anyone who implies an insult to his girlfriend. She sweeps up messes before anyone else notices them and walks that line between being the quiet background support and the leader of the group when questions stall.

She’s clearly read the book and loved it, but everyone else talks about it and asks the author questions while she nods along, not offering opinions.

I wonder if that’s the bookstore owner in her letting readers have a safe space, or if it’s the mom in her automatically taking the backseat to let someone else shine.

There are plenty of people who work for me who do the same, and I’m suddenly wondering if I tell them often enough that they’re appreciated.

Have I been taking them for granted?

When the discussion is over and people start rising, Giselle slips into the seat Sarah vacates, then orders me down the row, away from the stairs, head down. I fiddle with my phone. She acts like the irritated girlfriend, tapping her foot.

We’ve done this before.

Works nearly every time, and tonight, thank god, it’s working again. I can hear women asking for selfies and pictures, and a quick glance sideways verifies that the baseball players have been recognized, but I’m mostly flying under the radar.

Mostly.

Someone takes the empty seat in front of me.

“Is he always a handful?” Ingrid’s friend Portia asks Giselle.

“I’ve never met someone like him who wasn’t. It’s a prerequisite.” Giselle’s bantering, but I know she’s also swiveling her head and watching everyone around us, one hand on her phone to text for backup if I do something stupid.

Like being here in the first place when there are way more than fifty people up here.

“Can you cover your ears a minute so you don’t have to drag me out of here?” Portia says.

“I’m more worried about the group of women by the author who might possibly identify Barry Staniglow’s real name if they happen to look this way than I am about anything a friend of the owner might say to my client. I don’t hear a thing.”

She’s listening.

We both know it.

I lift my gaze to Portia.