Georgie

THURSDAY, EARLY, EARLY MORNING

“Georgie Francie Watkins, where the hell have you been?”

I’m just stepping into the VIP lounge area, plucking my dress away from my damp skin and breathing hard, when my best friend slams into me with a tipsy hug.

“Don’t be mad,” I coo, petting Marley’s head. “You know you’re the only one allowed to call me Georgie Francie, so that’s something.”

She releases me from the bear hug and plants a smacking kiss on my cheek before pulling back to study me. “Oh, damn,” she says with a mock sigh.

“What?”

“You look happy,” she says, a little petulantly. “Like glowy and satisfied and . . . happy.”

I laugh, lifting my hands to my cheeks. “I’m happy to be here.”

“Maybe,” she says with pursed lips. “But it’s something else. You’re in loooooove.” She drags out the last word like she’s eleven.

“I’m not!” I protest. “I’ve only been seeing the guy for a week.”

“Sure, but with months’ worth of foreplay, you’re on an accelerated timeline.” Marley puts her arm around my shoulder and drags me to our table, where we both plop into the booth. It’s early in the night, so most of our group’s either not here or on the dance floor, energy still high.

“I nearly freaked when I got to the table and you weren’t here,” Marley says, smiling in thanks as one of our go-to servers races over to bring Marley a vodka tonic. “I thought you bailed.”

I point down toward the dance floor below. “DJ’s been on a Beyoncé kick. You know I can’t resist the Queen.”

“Speaking of Queen Bey, do you think this dress makes me look like her?” Marley asks, spreading her arms out to the side and doing a little boob wiggle.

I give my petite, flat-chested blond best friend a once-over. “Absolutely.”

She nods in approval, gesturing down at the strapless, sparkly gold dress. “I spotted it last week at Intermix and thought, ‘There’s my New Year’s Eve right there.’”

I pull a bottle of water out of the ice bucket. “Wait, how long have I been out of the circuit? Isn’t next week . . . Halloween?”

“Right, well, I decided the dress was too fab to bench it until January. But who cares about dresses when we can talk about boys?”

I can’t hide the smile.

Marley gives a delighted laugh. “I’ve always wondered what it’d look like on you.”

“What what would look like?”

“Being smitten,” she says smugly.

“I’ve been smitten before!” I say indignantly. “I’ve had lots of boyfriends.”

“Lots of boyfriends, yes. Smitten . . . nope. So be honest, do you think this gold shimmer’s going to be too tacky as a maid-of-honor frock? What season are you thinking for the wedding? Because I could really make this work for fall and winter.”

Oh, man. I wasn’t planning on having another drink, but if this keeps up, it’ll be vodka city.

Not because the wedding talk is freaking me out. But because it’s not freaking me out. And because for just a second there, I really did think about my wedding. Not so much about Marley’s bridesmaid dress as about the groom, and, well . . .

Yikes, is my smile getting bigger?

“So is he why you didn’t join us for dinner?” Marley says, propping her chin on her hand.

I twirl a strand of hair, then realize I look like a smitten schoolgirl and drop it. “Sort of.”

“Where’d you guys go? I’m bored with my restaurant rotation, need recs.”

“We stayed in, actually.”

“Ordered in?”

“Eh. Cooked.”

Marley is staring at me. “You cooked?”

“It’s a thing. Pots, pans, stoves . . .”

She flicks my arm. “Sure, but since when do you do it? You’re a Manhattanite.”

“Well, to be fair, I didn’t really do it. I mean, I tried, and failed, and had to be rescued.”

“Ooh, he cooks?” Marley’s eyes light up.

“Not so much. His sister-in-law stopped by.”

Her jaw drops, and she sets her fingers over her eyes. “Just . . . give me a second. So much to process. You’ve already met his family? She’s not going to bump me out as maid of honor, is she?”

“I don’t know. Her chicken was really good. . . .”

“Did she join you for dinner? Did you pass the mashed potatoes around the table and eat off fussy china? Was there a tablecloth?”

“We ate at the kitchen counter, used paper towels as napkins, and no, she went home before we ate.”

Marley nods and sips her drink. “That’s a good sign for my maid-of-honor status.”

I don’t mention to Marley that Pam might be spending a bit more time in the city in the coming days. I don’t say anything to my friend because it’s fiercely private, but Pam’s reason for coming to see Andrew is both a little sweet and a little heartbreaking.

She wants to borrow money . . . for fertility treatments.

My heart squeezes just thinking about it. Apparently she and Peter have been trying to conceive for years, but there’s still no baby. The doctor has recommended a new treatment, one that’s terribly expensive. Peter is too proud to ask his brother for money, but Pam wants a baby more than her pride.

Andrew wrote her a blank check, no questions asked, and my heart . . .

I’m saved from getting weepy by the smell of familiar perfume and a wave of gorgeous red hair.

“Hello, darlings!” Liv Dotson says, plopping down into the booth across from us, her emerald green halter top a stunning contrast to her auburn waves.

Marley and I exchange a what the hell look without actually looking at each other. As best friends do.

This is . . . odd. We’re friendly with Liv, but hardly besties. Our respective groups overlap often enough that we frequently end up at the same club, but the same table? Not so much.

“So,” Liv says, leaning toward me and wrinkling her nose in playful confidence. “I’m dying to know. Did you get him here?” She looks around the VIP lounge, scanning for someone.

“Who?”