Happily Never After

“WAIT, WAIT, WAIT—WHAT about this?”

Sophie took a ridiculous selfie with her lips puckered around a cigar, a puff of smoke in front of her face. She held it up for me to see—she looked absolutely stoned—and said, “You can caption it ‘My beautiful smoker.’ ”

“Steinbeck.” I pried her phone from her hands and deleted the photo, which seemed incredibly bright in the dusky darkness. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

She grinned at me. “Because it’s fun.”

When I arrived at Upstream, Sophie was already seated at a table on the patio. Not only had she ordered our drinks, but she’d ordered beer bread and french fries, and the girl had picked up fucking cigars on her way over.

Which technically weren’t allowed on the patio.

However, it was now nine thirty on a Monday night and we were the only ones left on the patio, so we were free to puff to our hearts’ content.

The cigars had been to celebrate what she called our trifecta of good news.

1. The Stuart Breakthrough

2. The Lorna Boaty McBoatface (her name for the pontoon, not mine)

3. The Near Promotion

She’d texted me all day, out of her mind excited about the fact that her boss was finally retiring and she was going to be interviewed to be the replacement. It was crazy impressive that she could be a VP at a midsize company before hitting thirty, but not surprising when you knew her.

In addition to being a hard worker, she had this hyper-focused, methodical mentality, where every decision she made at work was guided by a type of how would I proceed if I owned the business? ideology. She was exactly what I would want in a VP, if I were running the business, and she deserved the recognition.

Of course, the near promotion had her all in on taking some pushing-the-envelope social media photos, and the entire night had been a giant photo shoot.

Until she’d gotten distracted by the cigars.

I lifted my phone and took a black-and-white shot of her smirking at me with one eyebrow raised. “Holy shit, this is it.”

“Shut up,” she said, finally putting out the cigar in our makeshift beer glass ashtray.

“Seriously.” The picture perfectly captured the way I saw her. She looked professional—smooth, wavy hair; glasses; black dress with blazer—but her expression was sexy and cute and so fucking charming that I knew I’d save it. “Look.”

I held it out, and she did a double take.

“Oh, my God, how’d you do that?” she asked, leaning her face a little closer to my phone.

Chanel No. 5 floated over to me in the summer breeze, and I ignored it. “Do what?”

She looked impressed and said, “Manage to take a picture that feels like the camera and the subject are sharing an intimate moment.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that, because the photo had managed to see her like a lover’s gaze.

My gaze.

I cleared my throat and said, “I’m a talented photographer, I guess.”

But just before I’d said it, she got a tiny crinkle in between her eyebrows.

“So what over-the-top caption should I post?” I said, intent on erasing that question mark of a moment. “How about ‘She makes it move.’ ”

She snorted. “Gross.”

“Hashtag wind beneath my wings?”

“Negatory,” she said, tilting her head. “It needs to be vague but deep, like a subtweet.”

“A subtweet?”

“You know what I mean.”

“How about . . .” I sat back in my chair and stared into the evening sky. “Sometimes you just know.”

“Sometimes you just know.” She repeated it, then added, “Oh, my God, that is perfect! Will totally be taken as a love confession, even though it’s saying nothing.”

“Right,” I said, “because the literal meaning behind it is that sometimes I look at you and just know that you’re going to need ice cream soon.”

“That is uncanny,” she said, dragging a hand through her wavy hair. “Because I was just about to ask you to go with me to Ted and Wally’s before we call it a night.”

“I knew that you were. Let’s go get our ice cream closer.”

“Sounds good.”

When she stood up, I thought two things.

1. Fuck, she had stunning legs.

2. She was still wearing her work shoes, which were very tall pumps.

“Aren’t your feet tired?” I asked as we walked around the other patio tables and followed the sidewalk around the corner.

“They’ve actually lost all feeling,” she said cheerfully.

“Do you want a piggyback ride?” My feet were sore, and I was wearing steel-toed boots that did not have high heels. Hers had to be fucking throbbing. “So you can take them off?”

“No, thanks,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “My building is close by.”

“Please let me,” I insisted, tugging on her sleeve to pull her closer as we got to the ice cream shop. “I want to.”

“No,” she said, grinning up at me. “One more beer and I probably would, but I’m far too sober for such shenanigans.”

“Bullshit.”

“Shut up and buy me a malt,” she said, grabbing my sleeve and pulling me into Ted & Wally’s as she pushed open the door.

“Fine.” I let her drag me forward, trying not to enjoy the feeling of her hands on me, and then I got an idea as she was placing her order.

I pulled out my wallet, grabbed my credit card, and handed it to her.

“Wha—”

“Please order me a malt, too, and I’ll be right back.”

Her eyebrows furrowed but she took the card. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll be right back. Just come outside when you’re done.”