And she smiles when she says it, but it is more of a half smirk, and Maggie takes in the rest of her face: the olive skin and eyes, pouty lips, all of which stop Maggie for a second and make her take a longer look, as if it is her job to catch it. Whatever she thinks she is missing.
“I know you’re setting up, but I was just hoping to speak with Ryan . . .” She realizes she doesn’t know her last name—Ryan’s last name—which is when she realizes it could be Huntington. Whoever this Ryan is, her last name could be Huntington. She could still share that with Nate, too. Maggie catches the menu out of the corner of her eye. On the bottom it says Executive Chef. And, blessedly, it says that her name isn’t Huntington. It’s Engle. Ryan Engle.
“Engle,” she says. “I’m looking for Ryan Engle.”
The woman puts the glass down, takes out another one, and pours two glasses of Hendrick’s gin. “Are you here to ask her for a donation or help with a charity drive?”
“No.”
“Are you a Jehovah’s Witness asking for money?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“Do you know my mother? Because she is definitely looking for money.”
“None of the above.”
She hands Maggie one of the glasses. Why is everyone trying to get me drunk today?
“Then I’m Ryan.”
“I’m Maggie.”
“Maggie, everyone who walks through the front door between lunch and dinner gets a shot of gin to make the rest of the day better. That’s the rule.”
“Really?”
“No, but I’m having a pretty crappy day, and I have this self-imposed rule about not drinking alone. Especially gin, which is my weak spot. So you’re going to have to do.”
“Thanks.”
She tilts her glass in Maggie’s direction and opens her throat, swallows it down, fast.
This is Ryan. Drinking gin. With me. I’m drinking gin with her. Ryan with the lovely arms, the pretty tattoos. Nate has seen all of them. Where are the others? There must be others. Nate would know those too. He would know everything.
“So you’re Ryan?” Maggie says.
Ryan puts her glass back on the counter. “Didn’t we just do this?”
“If we could just do it one more time . . .”
Ryan motions to her to have her drink, which she does, closing her eyes against it. Then Ryan pours herself another. “So why are you here again?”
What on earth was she going to say? I have some questions about my future husband, whom you happened to be married to? I’d like you to explain what happened between you, since apparentlyhe is unable to tell me anything that resembles the truth.
“Wait, did you say your name was . . . Maggie?” Ryan asks.
Maggie nods. “I did.”
“Oh, Maggie, I told you I was having a bad day!” she says, but she smiles, a real smile, when she says it. And Maggie can see it, can feel it: how intoxicating it can be to get this woman’s approval.
“I’m lost,” Maggie says.
“You’re early. I don’t need you for another hour. Did Lev tell you to get here this early?” She looks down at her watch, turns it over. “I thought Lev said that your name was Molly. I’m terrible with names, so it is probably my fault. Man, I appreciate you covering for Lev tonight. I know she feels bad about being sick again. But when you’re pregnant, food is complicated. We all know what that’s like, right?”
Maggie feels her eyes open wide. “Have you been pregnant?”
“Excuse me?”