“Easton—” she cuts in.
“But she is,” I say. “Daisy’s such a selfish creature. Don’t you agree?” I ask Kendrick. “My bad. I forgot you love The Great Gatsby, and probably its main characters too.”
“I do. I think Daisy is terribly misunderstood,” Kendrick says.
I pretend to be appalled at my faux pas. “Oopsy Daisy, as they say. But hey, at least there’s Hemingway, right? You two can bond over him.”
I’d bet my sanity Bellamy despises Hemingway. “You said he was trash when we were having dinner, didn’t you, Bellamy? When we debated if he’s trash or treasure?”
She curls her lip, shooting me death rays with her stare. “No. I never said that.”
“But you think it, right?” There’s no way she likes Hemingway.
An annoyed sound—is that a growl?—falls from her lips. “I don’t want to talk about Hemingway.”
Kendrick clears his throat, edging away from the bar. “Excuse me for just a second.”
Then he’s gone.
Yes! Victory is mine! I have vanquished the enemy.
Bellamy parks her hands on her hips. “What the hell was that all about?”
Protecting my turf, that’s what. “Listen, he was all wrong for you. I have someone else in mind.”
“So, let me get this right. Kendrick is wrong for me, so you decided to stir shit up about Daisy Buchanan and Ernest Hemingway? Things we discussed when it was just you and me?”
“Well, since you told me your feelings about Daisy when we first met, I presumed it was something you wanted all new dates to know.”
“I didn’t. And I never even told you what I think of Hemingway,” she snarls.
“I guessed right, though, didn’t I?” I’m feeling pretty good about how well I know her.
“Easton . . . can we just—”
But I catch sight of Max as he sweeps into the warehouse, and I’ll have to tend to Angeline. I hold up a wait-a-moment finger. “Give me one second. I’ve got someone else for you.”
“I don’t want—”
Walking away from her, I find Gretchen, my lead hostess, and pull her aside. “Favor. Don’t introduce anyone to Bellamy Hart.”
“You had a few men for her to meet, though,” she says.
“Change of plans. Spread the word. Especially not Payton Ellis,” I add. I want to keep all the men away from her, and that guy is tailor-made for Bellamy.
But I’ve got to keep my promise to Angeline too, and Max Walker is headed for the craft cocktail bar. I need to usher him to Angeline by the champagne bar.
Except . . .
Fuck me hard with a rusty chainsaw.
As the torch singer melts into a sultry Ella Fitzgerald tune, Payton Ellis is sailing over to Bellamy on his own.
No. Way.
The man is an app designer with an English degree. He wants a woman who’s smart, independent, beautiful, and loves the theater.
Max can wait.
I double back to Bellamy and my new nemesis. Must. Destroy. Him.
“Hello, there,” I say brightly. “How are you doing, Payton?”
The dark-haired man gives an amiable smile. Bellamy gives a fake one.
“Great. Just great. I was telling Bellamy about a play I saw last weekend.”
“And I love theater,” she offers pointedly. “A lot.”
I adopt a dubious look, tilting my head. “That’s not what you said to me. You said you didn’t like plays.”
Payton furrows his brow, then turns to Bellamy. “Oh, I thought you liked Albee.”
“Edward Albee is great. I never said I don’t like plays, Easton.” Her tone is ice.
I keep mine friendly. “I recall you saying late the other night that you preferred musicals.”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” she corrects me. The tundra of her tone turns arctic.
“I don’t think I’m mistaken. It was late. The stars shone through the windows of your place,” I say, waxing on.
“The other night?” Payton croaks.
“Yes, we were chatting then. Weren’t we, Bellamy?”
Her lips are a pale, fixed line, holding in all the anger. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
“At night?” Payton asks again, concerned.
I laugh like I’ve got a secret. “Well, more like midnight,” I whisper.
“Oh,” he says in a strangled voice.
Bellamy grabs my arm and tugs me away through the crowd, toward the elevator. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Guarding my horde of gold. “My job,” I say.
“If your job is sabotaging everything,” she seethes.
I scoff. “Please. I’m just making sure you meet the right men. He was all wrong too.”
She fumes so hard I swear smoke billows from her nostrils. “And no one gets to decide for themselves? Because you know best?”
“I do,” I grit out. I know her better than anyone. And what is there to decide? How the fuck can she want to meet anyone else?
“This is great. Just great. The right men, Easton? You’re making sure I meet . . . the right men?” She sketches quotes that seem more like ferocious claw marks.
“Yes.” I play dumb this round. “You didn’t like them?”