They weren’t wrong on those points, either. I chewed my lip for a few seconds, debating whether or not to unload on them. Then, I blurted, “He kissed me. Last night.”
Both of them grinned.
“And he asked me out to dinner.”
The grins widened.
“I can’t tonight, I’m having dinner with Gigi and her boys,” I hurried on. “But he wants me to come over tomorrow instead to pass out Halloween candy and meet his puppy.”
“Cade has a puppy?” Gwen practically squealed. “I didn’t know that!”
“What are you going to wear?” Flo asked. “You’ll need a costume.”
Gwen nodded. “Definitely.”
“What will Iwear?! I don’t even know if I’m going!”
Flo snorted. “Of course you’re going.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because, even if you are leaving, you owe it to yourself to enjoy a night with that man before you go. If not for you, for all womankind.” Flo’s expression was fierce. “This is Caden Fucking Hightower we’re talking about. He is fine. He is so fine, he makes me want to dry-hump a pillow.”
“Flo, keep it PG-13,” Gwen chastised.
“ThatwasPG-13. I didn’t say I wanted to ride his face until I saw Jesus on the ceiling, did I? No. No, I did not.”
A startled giggle shot from my mouth at Flo’s adamant declaration. When she heard it, she pivoted her pretty brown eyes my way. “You’re going. You’re going to find out exactly how firm that ass of his is. And then, after, you’re going tospill. Preferably over tequila.”
“I’m buying,” Gwen cut in. “My house. Sunday night.”
Flo threw her hands up in the air. “Sweet! Girl’s night! I’ll bring limes.”
They both turned to me expectantly.
Waiting.
And, looking back and forth from one woman to the other, I realized there was approximately a zero percent chance of getting out of any of this. Not tomorrow with Cade, not the debrief to follow. Thus, I settled back against the sofa with a sigh, lifted my limp arms overhead, and said, weakly, “Girl’s night.”
Flo and Gwen both cheered.
Chapter Eleven
That girl is so stacked!
(She works at a bookstore.)
- Imogen Warner, willfully misinterpreting
Gigi was hard at work on Rory’s costume when I stepped into the reception area. She tossed the flashy neon fabric onto her desk and turned to scan me up and down. “Feel better?”
“I no longer smell like stale espresso beans,” I answered, crossing toward the window seat. “Though I’m so tired, I almost fell asleep in the shower.”
“Please don’t do that. Do you know how much paperwork I have to fill out if a guest conks their head on the tap and dies under my watch?”
I shot her a look as I collapsed onto the cushions, curling my legs up beneath me. They felt like they were made of Jell-O. My eyelids, anvils. My hair was still damp, curling loose around my shoulders. I’d been too exhausted to blow it dry. I was dressed in my most broken-in pair of denim cut-offs, oversized socks, fuzzy wool gloves, and the Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt I’d had for ages. I wouldn’t be winning any fashion awards, but Gigi wasn’t one to judge.
It was safe to say, my first shift at The Gallows had effectively kicked my ass.