“Because I think this outfit is what looks best on you.”

“Jameson.”

“Yes?”

“I'm only wearing panties.”

“Exactly. Now please stop talking.”

4

“So who all is going to be there?”

Tate glanced up. She was painting Rusty's toenails and they were sitting outside in the backyard. She'd turned on the pool lights and they cast an ethereal glow over everything.

“Some of his partners,” Tate replied, knowing her friend was asking about the barbecue. “People from his office downtown. I called Ang, but he's too busy this weekend to fly out here.”

“Probably a good thing,” Rusty sighed. It had been years since her one night stand with Angier, but she'd never fully gotten over it.

“You're totally welcome to invite anyone you want,” Tate suggested. The other girl snorted.

“Like who? All the old gang has moved on, and it's like I'm just … still here. Same ol' Rusty,” she sighed.

“Hey, I like 'same ol' Rusty',” Tate pointed out.

“Still. Ang has moved off to L.A., your sister is way out in the country. All of our friends are getting married and having babies and getting careers. Even you, the craziest of us all, is a settled down married woman. And here I am, still working in a bar, still living alone.”

“I may be bias, but I think the bar you work in is pretty awesome. I hear the owner is the best boss ever.”

Rusty was the general manager for O'Shea's, Tate's first bar. Call it nepotism, she didn't care – she knew Rusty was a kick ass bartender, and she'd worked in the field for so long, she knew how to run a good bar. Plus, it felt good giving something back to the friend who'd helped her out for so long. Tate made sure that Rusty's paychecks kept her well in order – she may have been living alone, but her new apartment was a mansion compared to the piece of shit they'd rented together.

“She's pretty rad,” Rusty laughed. “But her silent partner is a little scary.”

Tate looked up again, but Rusty wasn't looking at her – she was staring back at the house. Tate glanced over her shoulder and smiled when she saw Jameson pacing around in the conservatory. He had his cell to his ear and with his free hand, he was making a lot of angry slashing motions. Someone on the other end of his phone call was getting the sharp end of his tongue.

Lucky.

“You just ...” Tate stopped herself before she could say something stupid like “have get to know him”, because in all honesty, Jameson was almost scarier when someone got to know him. “It's like learning a language, right? Once you learn how to speak fluent Satan, he's not so scary. Being a dick and snapping all the time, it's just the way he communicates.”

“I think that's one language class I'll pass on,” Rusty laughed. There was a long pause and Tate concentrated on her work for a while. Then she cleared her throat.

“So there's no one at all you want to invite? No one with, say, sandy blonde hair? Green eyes?”

“Who are you talking about?”

Tate rolled her eyes.

“Oh, c'mon. You have been making googly eyes at that beer distributor for weeks now. What's the big deal?” she demanded.

“Not all of us are like you, Tate. We can't all be slutty mcslutbags,” Rusty teased. “What do you want me to do? Just jump him next time he comes into the back room?”

“Ew, no. Jump him in the office, there's a couch in there.”

“Yeah, and I shudder to think what you and Satan probably used to do on it. No thanks. I'll continue my spinster existence.”

“You could just ask him out. Invite him to the party,” Tate suggested, leaning back and putting the polish away.

“How? Just lurk around work all morning tomorrow – which is a Sunday, BTW – and hope he happens to show up?” Rusty asked, looking over her new pedicure.

“Call him. He has a home office, he always has his cell. Just do it,” Tate urged. Rusty was quiet for a minute, but then she shook her head, her strawberry blonde curls flying around with the motion.

“No. We've barely even spoken, what would he think if I just called him? I'll come to this party where I don't know anyone and I'll stand against the wall like I always do and then I'll go to bed. And then you promised you'd let me go home on Monday,” Rusty reminded her. Tate held up her hands.

“Hey, you're not a prisoner here.”

“You said if I wanted a ride home, I'd have to ask Jameson personally, and then he'd have to drive me.”

“He's a wonderful conversationalist.”

“You're a brat. You know that, right?” Rusty laughed.

“Yeah, I'm getting spoiled in my old age. And I'll make you a promise – I won't let you be a wallflower. I'll take you around and introduce you to a whole bunch of future millionaires. Then we'll get knee walking drunk and you can have nasty sex with one of them in the pool,” Tate informed her.

“Oh god, just stop. I feel a headache coming on.”

“Just try and get out of it – I'll make Jameson carry you downstairs.”

“He wouldn't.”

“He'd love it.”

As if he'd known he was being talked about, the object of their conversation came striding across the lawn. Tate almost laughed at Rusty pulled back into herself, wrapping her arms around her knees.

“Is everyone a goddamn vegan nowadays?” Jameson demanded once he'd reached them.

“No, I think they're all just mostly gluten free,” Tate replied.

“Shut up.”

“You're the one who asked -”

“I keep getting calls about peoples fucking 'dietary needs' and what they want at this stupid fucking party. Did I miss something? Because I thought when you were invited to a party, you ate whatever was fucking served to you,” he growled.

“Jameson, I was at a party with you once where all they had was cod, and you wanted halibut. You made the woman who owned the catering company drive all over at midnight looking for halibut,” Tate pointed out. He glared at her, but she was rewarded with a snicker from Rusty.

“I'm special, remember? These people should just be glad they're getting to come to my house. Isn't that enough?” he asked, finally sitting in one of the lounge chairs next to the girls.