“She ran out! I couldn’t even get a word in edgewise.”
I shook my head slowly. “You’re rusty.”
“Really? I can still catch her.” He got up from the table but hesitated when I flinched. Quickly, I schooled my expression to hide any disappointment.
“If that’s what you’re looking for, go ahead,” I said, but the confidence I’d just earned faltered. He seriously wanted someone superficial enough to walk out on him over jeggings?
“Fine, I will,” he said, but he didn’t move.
I didn’t want him to go, because I knew he’d talk his way out of this. And then Sebastian and Isabella would probably laugh about it at their wedding while I sat in a corner wondering why I’d ever let him go after her. It was possible I was jealous. Which meant it was possible a crush was developing. Noticing the way Sebastian filled out a suit, wanting his approval, hoping he saw me as a bitch simply because, according to self-proclaimed expert Luciano, men loved them . . . those were classic signs. A crush could not happen. Not only was Modern Man, and by extension, Sebastian, my client, but he and I had to co-manage a team without taking each other out in the process.
“Fine,” I agreed. “Go ahead.”
Our team descended on the table just as Sebastian took off for the exit. “What the hell just happened?” Albert bellowed. “Did Georgina scare off your date?”
Sebastian called back, “Not if I can help it.”
“He’s going after her?” Justin asked me.
It appeared he was. If I’d asked him not to, it would’ve looked like forfeiting. This way, at least, I’d lose with a shred of dignity.
As time ticked down, the guys took bets as to whether Sebastian would get her back in—the general consensus being that would make him the winner. My stomach was in knots, but not about losing. I hated the idea of him taking her home. Maybe they were already in a cab. I tried not to stare down the door.
After a few minutes, Sebastian strolled back in. By the swagger in his step, I assumed she was hot on his heels, but he was alone. “No luck,” he said, shrugging. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“Then I guess we have a winner,” Garth said, handing Sebastian a beer.
“Bullshit.” We all turned to Justin, who had his head cocked as he studied Sebastian. “You’re forfeiting.”
“Do you see her by my side?” Sebastian asked.
“No, but you’re a shit liar with one dead giveaway that never fails. And don’t ask me what it is. I’m not stupid enough to tell you. Give me your phone.” Justin held out his palm to Sebastian while glancing at me. “Sorry, George, but like you said, a bet’s a bet.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Sebastian passed over his cell. “She’s not in there, dude.”
“What was her name?” Justin asked.
Justin thought Sebastian had gotten Isabella’s number and might still have this. I bit my bottom lip, then released it as soon as Sebastian glanced at my mouth. “Her name was Isabella,” I said.
Justin went through Sebastian’s contacts. “Hmm. Don’t see her.”
“Then that settles it,” Sebastian said. “Georgina wins this round.”
I sent up a quick prayer that this was the final round. I wasn’t sure I could handle another go at this.
“Wait a sec,” Justin said and scrolled the opposite direction.
“Justin,” Sebastian warned, finally looking away from me. “Leave it alone.”
“A-ha.” Justin held up the screen. “Cantina Santino Isabella,” he read off the screen. “It was under ‘C’.”
Sebastian rubbed his brow, his eyes on me. “Ah, yeah. But that was from earlier, not right now—she gave me her number before Georgina blew up my game.”
“Wow,” I said. “You work fast.”
“You’re not so slow yourself.” He tipped his head back for a sip of beer, glancing at me. “I always get the number right away. As you can see, Justin has burned me in the past.”
Justin side-eyed Sebastian before checking the notebook. “Sebastian failed. Judge rules—Georgina wins.”
Garth put his hands on my shoulders from behind and squeezed. “Nice work, boss,” he said. “You bested a pro.”
“Next drink’s on me, Keller,” Albert added.
I’d bested the best. Who would’ve thought? Happy hour was a success. I’d not only survived it but had come out on top. I’d been correct in assuming I’d make more headway with the guys tonight than I had all week at the office.
“No need, Al,” Sebastian said. “I’ll get Georgina’s next drink. After all, we never set any stakes.”
I wasn’t sure that was true. It seemed that the stakes had been set the first time I’d been introduced to Sebastian as my new co-boss. He wasn’t willing to make room for me in his office, much less in his world. It was me or him, and neither of us would go down without a fight.
9
Sebastian
After a quick pick-up game of basketball with my sister’s husband in their driveway, Libby called us in for brunch. Sturdy trees with changing leaves flanked their Colonial-style home in Newton, a suburb of Boston. Aaron tossed the ball onto the lawn as we entered the house through the garage. My nephew sat on a stool at the kitchen island, picking lox off a bagel while Libby buzzed around him, setting out fruit, cream cheese, hummus, Bloody Mary mix, and more.
“How was the drive?” she asked when she saw me.
“Hardly any traffic,” I said, popping a grape as I sniffed the air. “Are you wearing perfume around your own house?”
“We just got back from synagogue. If I don’t dress to the nines, everybody thinks I’m the kids’ nanny.”
At five feet tall, my twin sister looked much younger than her actual thirty-three years. It was the same dark hair and complexion as mine that often got her mistaken for the help. Only our height and eye color set us apart—otherwise, Libby and I looked the same, talked the same, and saw most things the same way.
“It probably doesn’t help that you carry a jar of homemade salsa verde in your purse,” I said.
She checked a skillet on the stove. “When I was a kid,” she told her son, “your abuela made chilaquiles all the time for me and your uncle.”
“She made them for me too, Mom,” José answered. “I wasn’t a baby when she died. I was already four.”
Libby made the sign of the cross the way Mom used to. “Don’t play with your food.”
“I hate lox.”
“Have one bite.” She took a bowl with Saran wrap over the top from the fridge.
I peeked in and made a face. “You’re serving guac and lox?”
“I have culture coming out of my ears,” she said, stopping in the pantry for a clipped bag of chips. “Unlike some people, I’m proud of my Hispanic heritage. My children will be too.”
Libby’s jabs were never subtle. By some people she meant Mom and me. There’d been times we as a family had tried to hide our background to make things easier on ourselves, but Libby had never subscribed to that—especially when it came to names. She’d given her husband no choice but to defend their children’s traditionally Mexican names to his Orthodox parents. She’d convert to Judaism for him, but damn if she wouldn’t put our family’s stamp on things. She’d even been using her full name, Libertad, since Mom’s death.
Aaron balanced Carmen on his hip, dragging her playpen into the kitchen. “Things calmed down at work yet?” he asked me.
I visited Libby whenever I had a free weekend, and every time they asked about work, I answered with some version of “the usual.” Today, my mind went to Georgina. She was a disruption to my routine, a routine I liked and one that had served me well up until recently.
“Why are you hesitating?” Libby asked as she plated the food.
She and I weren’t the kinds of twins who finished each other’s sentences but sometimes, she was a little too in tune with me. “Work has been better.”