If Marcus is dating someone new—less than twenty-four hours after declaring his deep feelings for me—it’s a good thing. Yes? I leave when things get too serious. It’s what I do, and I don’t leave in order to be followed.
Only, Marcus isn’t following me.
He’s driving me crazy.
* * *
C.J.’s loud voice cuts through the crowd noise. “You wouldn’t think all these trust-fund babies would care about something as gauche as ladies’ night, and yet here it is.” He slaps the shiny wooden bar. “Busiest night of the week.”
We’re back at Studio O, and it’s teeming with twenty-somethings and members of the old crowd. I lean toward the bar to sip my third French 75. I’m drinking way too much. More Marcus Merritt bad influence.
“Back in the day, they’d never be caught dead encouraging such a low-rent gimmick,” I say.
“Don’t be a snob,” he sniffs, finishing his third Poinsettia. I’m a psychic, and I predict we’ll be calling a car to drive us home tonight. “The Chicago dating scene is outrageously expensive.”
“That’s nothing new.”
His eyebrow arches, and his voice goes loud. “What IS new is me being allowed to participate in ladies’ night.” He throws both hands up, victory-style, and I nod.
“Very forward-thinking of the owner.”
My bestie takes another sip, lowering his arms. “Clever is more like it. He knows I’ll spend more sending drinks to guys once I’m drunk and horny.”
I laugh, but his eyes narrow. Pushing his beige linen blazer back, his fist rests on a narrow hip clad in tight coral pants. “Speaking of horny. What’s this new development in your love life?”
“No new development.” I take another sip. “Let’s do a shot.”
“Stop distracting me and spill.”
“I’m serious. It’s nothing. You know how I am.”
I’m about to say more when I’m cut off by a mini-buzz rippling through the crowd. A couple just entered, and I strain to see who’s causing the commotion. Maybe it’s a celebrity sighting, not that I care. When I see who it is, I almost drop my drink.
The woman from Marcus’s office stands at the entrance dressed in white-lace short-shorts and a black and white floral crop-top that plays peek-a-boo with her lined torso. She teeters on silver strappy heels, and her long, toned legs seem to go on for miles. Damn. Right behind her is none other than Marcus Merritt, sexy as ever in a grey blazer over a black tee and dark jeans. What the hell?
“Holy shit,” C.J. hisses, turning quickly toward the bar. “This might be the most interesting thing to happen all spring. Other than your return, of course.”
I turn fast beside him, and finish my drink. I’m blinking, trying to hide the cyclone of emotions spinning through me. He’s dating her? He’s actually dating that woman?
“Who is she?” I have to know.
“Wait, are you pretending to care?” he steps back, but I grab his sleeve and jerk him forward again.
“Don’t be a pill, Carlton.”
The bartender walks up, and my friend holds up two fingers then signals to us. “Vodka shots for Carlton and Amalie.”
The cyclone is tightening into rage as I wait for his answer. Cutting my eyes at him, he laughs and throws an arm over my shoulder. “Settle down, Beavis.”
Two short glasses appear, and he continues. “That long drink of sex is none other than Paige Goldfarb.”
I pick up my shot and sip it. “Who’s Paige Goldfarb?”
My friend slams his back and exhales a loud response. “She’s the newest addition to our world of high-stakes power-posing, but she carries quite the backstory, let me tell you.”
“Please do.” C.J. loves to be dramatic.
“She inherited Lady X cosmetics last year. Very out of the blue. Made her a millionaire several times over. And counting.”