Big Rock(23)

But it turns out my sister isn’t wrong, because Emily is definitely looking at me now. Her eyes hook into mine, and her tongue darts out, licking her lips.

Harper laughs, then brandishes imaginary claws. “Meow. I smell a catfight.”

I shake my head. Charlotte is hardly the type for a catfight.

My fake fiancée walks past Emily, and the younger girl roams her eyes over Charlotte like she’s studying her, waiting to pounce. Her hand shoots out, and she grabs Charlotte’s arm. Shit, Harper was right. Fisticuffs are about to start. I’m momentarily torn between the sheer rubbernecking fascination of watching the scene unfold, and the impulse to stop a tussle.

“Oh my God, I love your shoes,” Emily says, a huge adoring smile on her face. “Where did you get them?”

Whew. Emily was only checking out Charlotte’s footwear. The two of them gab about fashion and clothes and designers, and Charlotte handles it all with aplomb.

I don’t know why she doubted herself earlier today.

She f*cking rocks. She can be my fake fiancée anytime.





CHAPTER TWELVE


Charlotte lets out a big breath. She wipes her hand across her forehead. “After that performance, and this long day, I need a drink,” she says when we slide into a cab. “Or two.”

“You and me both.” I tap her knee with my knuckles, then tell the driver to head downtown. “By the way, nurse. Fucking brilliant.”

We knock fists. “And it wasn’t even a lie. It was just a, how shall we say, delayed admission of the truth.”

“Honestly, I’m giving you an A for perfect timing with your delivery tonight.”

“Why thank you,” she says, playfully. “I look forward to my report card.”

I pretend to hand one to her.

She mimes opening it, then reads. “I see I earned straight As.”

I shake my head. “A-plus. The nurse comment counts as extra credit. See?” I stab a finger at the invisible report card, as if I’m pointing it out.

She laughs and grabs my arm. “I couldn’t help myself. Her comments were so old-fashioned.”

My mom stayed home with Harper and me as kids, so I’m totally on board with a mom working out of the house or taking care of the kids. Whatever works for her. In Mom’s case, she raised us, and she also advised my father on his business. Through it all, he treated her like a queen in some ways and an equal in all ways. That’s how it should be, whatever choice a woman makes.

“Speaking of old-fashioned, want to try Gin Joint?” I ask, naming a new bar in Chelsea that’s getting rave reviews, especially for its old-fashioned made with gin.

“Yes. I’ve been up since six a.m.,” she says, then pouts her lips like a movie star of olden days and speaks in a husky, sexy tone. “But I’m still in the mood for a nightcap.”

Soon we walk through a red door into a garden-level bar with soft, sultry music piped in overhead, and wine red, royal blue, and deep purple velvet couches. The place has a New Orleans–style ambiance—rich, dark, and moody.

Charlotte sinks down onto a couch, dropping her purse by her side, relaxation evident in her pose. I order for us, returning with her old-fashioned and a bourbon on the rocks for me.

“To Honest Charlotte,” I say, lifting my glass.

“To Cocker Spaniel Spencer,” she says, then takes a drink. She moans after the first sip and taps her glass. “That is divine. Try it.”

She hands me the glass, and I take a drink. My taste buds do a jig. “Wow. Can we steal their recipe?”

She laughs. “Just like the time we went to Speakeasy,” she says, her eyes twinkling with the memory of how we went into business together. We were celebrating the sale of Boyfriend Material at the opening of a new bar in midtown. We’d ordered the bar’s signature cocktail, the Purple Snow Globe, which went on to become a big hit as a packaged drink sold in grocery stores. It was so damn good, we’d both pointed to our drinks at the same time, and said “Let’s steal this recipe.”

“Jinx, you owe me a drink,” we’d then said in unison.

That had sealed the deal on our plans. In college, we were beer snobs, and we used to joke at parties that we’d open our own bar someday, and we’d kick ass at it because we could tell the difference between quality beer and the swill from a keg. Hardly a special skill, but even so, that was what got us rolling.

Once we graduated, we went in different directions work wise, even though we stayed close friends. I launched my app, and Charlotte snagged a plum gig in business development at a Fortune 500 company. The hours were ruthless, though, the environment was cutthroat, and there wasn’t a single ounce of enjoyment. She was miserable but determined not to wallow in it, so she started making plans to do what she loved—run a business based on fun, being social, and hanging out with friends. When she gave notice, she asked me if I was ready to do what we’d talked about the night we’d vowed never to drink keg beer.

“I’ve been squirreling away my yearly bonuses. Want to open a bar in midtown with me?”

Flush with cash from the sale, and ready for a new adventure, I’d said yes in seconds. “Can we name the bar after the dogs we had as kids?”

“Hell yeah.”

The rest is history. The Lucky Spot is profitable and has expanded to three locations, and we have a blast running it together.