“How’s it going, Ave?” Tasha’s voice snaps me back to reality. We’ve been so busy, she and I have hardly had a chance to say hello. But now she’s standing next to me behind the bar, shaking a martini for a customer a few seats down. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
“Why?” She arches a brow at me as she skewers two olives and dunks them in the martini. “You’re pouring chardonnay in a pilsner glass, for starters.”
I glance down at what I’m doing and wince to see she’s right. “Oh, shit.”
Tasha chuckles and leaves to serve her drink while I correct my error behind the bar. When she comes back, I brace myself for the inevitable interrogation. “So, what’s going on with you?” She tilts her head at me. “Your recent change of scenery sure agrees with you. You look . . . different somehow.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah.” She studies me closer now. “You haven’t stopped smiling since you clocked in tonight.”
“I haven’t?” I glance at her and my smile spreads over my face, derailing any attempt to play it cool. Then I laugh, and I’m totally busted before her shakedown has even begun.
“Oh. My. God.” Her brown eyes go wide. “I know that look. Granted, I’ve never seen it on you before. But, girl, that look says it all.” Her voice drops to a private level. “You did it. You got laid, didn’t you?”
Fire creeps into my face and I’m just thankful for the music and the din of conversation that lets me keep at least a little of my dignity intact.
“When?” Tasha asks. “And with who? You haven’t even told me you’re seeing someone.”
“Because I’m not seeing anyone. Or I wasn’t. I’m not. It’s not like that.” I shake my head, unsure how I would describe what happened between Nick and me. “It was sex, that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all,” she prompts, clearly unsatisfied with my answer. “That’s why you’ve been acting so giddy and distracted? Just some random sex, no big deal.”
“Okay,” I relent because she’s not going to let it go anyway. “It was really great sex. And . . . not that random.”
“Meaning, someone we know?” When I shrug coyly, her face compresses into a frown. “If you tell me that in a moment of weakness, you and Joel—”
“What? Hell no!”
I bark out a laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea, and, as if our thoughts have summoned the beast, I see Joel’s brunette head swivel in our direction from the other side of the restaurant. He narrows a scowl on us from where he’s standing at a four-top, playing the gregarious host alongside Kimmie, the one server who can tolerate his overbearing management style and lack of basic humanity.
Then again, Kimmie’s not much better herself. The petite blonde has had her lips permanently affixed to our manager’s ass since he hired her.
“Definitely not Joel,” I assure Tasha as we both get busy filling drink orders while we continue to talk.
“But I’ve met this guy?”
I nod. “More or less.”
She considers me for a moment, then shakes her head as if dismissing one guess for another. It only takes her a second longer before her expression lights up in disbelief. “No. No, you did not.” She drops her bar cloth in the small sink and rounds on me, both hands fisted on her hips. “That guy from the building? The one who almost ran us over at the elevator?”
“To be fair, I was the one who almost ran him over,” I offer lamely.
Tasha gapes. “We’re talking about that guy—tall, dark, totally arrogant. Acted like he owned the damn building or something. We’re talking about the superior prick?”
Oh, God. She has no idea how superior. “That’s him.”
“Avery Ross, you little slut!” she gasps, grinning like a loon. “Tell me everything.” I giggle and she smacks me lightly in the bicep. “I’m not kidding. You know how I spent most of last night? Watching TV in Antonio’s ratty sweats with dried baby formula in my hair. I want details. I need details. Let me live vicariously, at least.”
I laugh, then start telling her about meeting Nick at the art gallery, but I’ve hardly spoken three sentences before we hear Joel pointedly clear his throat behind us on our side of the bar. He crowds right in, obviously intending to break up our brief conversation.
“Tasha. Gimme four shots of whiskey for table nine.” No please. No thank you. But that’s Joel.
“Sure thing,” she says, rolling her eyes at me as she pivots out of his shadow to take care of his order. “You want top shelf for those?”
He huffs out an impatient breath. “Do I look like I give a shit?” I don’t escape his glower, either. “Kimmie says you left her hanging fifteen minutes for a flight of tequila shots earlier tonight.”