Rom-Com Collection (Part 2). Kristan Higgins

you,” I said. She smiled and gave me a quick hug, then went off to Perfectville.

      Freddie and I ordered nachos and talked about work as we ate—my work, his lack thereof, and what he might do with his life. “You could always be a lawyer,” I suggested. “You do love the sound of your own voice.”

      “True, true. Not that the universe needs another lawyer,” he said. “Hey, completely meaning to change the subject, I guess the next stop on the Tour of Whores is coming.”

      “So much fun,” I murmured. “Poor Dad. All this for nothing.”

      “Oh, I don’t know. I think they’ll make it,” Fred said, draining his beer.

      “Who?” I asked. “Mom and Dad? Really?”

      “Yeah. They’re gonna make it. I could be wrong, of course. There’s always a first time.”

      I rolled my eyes. “You and that little ego of yours,” I murmured. My voice trailed off.

      Mark and Muriel had just come into the bar.

      In the olden days, Mark used to take the gang to Whoop & Holler after a particularly successful pitch or a long week. Muriel hadn’t changed from the black skirt, white shirt and killer heels she’d worn to Hammill Farms today. Mark’s hand was on her back as he guided her to a table on the other side of the dimly lit bar. As she sat down, she looked up at him and laughed at whatever he was saying.

      They looked … happy. My Hammill Farms presentation had kicked Muriel’s in the butt, and she was laughing, and gorgeous, and on a date. With Mark.

      My heart rolled over like a dead turtle, then sank to the pit of my stomach. Whatever triumph and pleasure I’d felt over work today faded. I’m going to slap you, Michelle said. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. So snap out of it.

      Easy for you to say, I told her. Are you the one who was just invited to watch porn at a dairy farm? Huh, First Lady who lives at the White House? And stop stealing Mrs. Roosevelt’s lines.

      “Callie? Wake up,” my brother said. “You’re muttering to yourself.” He turned around to look where I was staring. “Why, it’s Mark! The guy you’ve been mooning over half your life! Want to give me a piggyback ride to show how cute we are?”

      “Shh!” I hissed, kicking his shin.

      See, way back when I was a teen and in fact mooning over Mark, I would often take Freddie on my rounds. I thought it would make me look adorable, loving and mature, that pretty Callie Grey and her sweet little brother whom she so obviously loved. Of course, I did love Freddie (much of the time, anyway) and he was always thrilled when I took him out of the funeral home for a spin on my bike or yes, a piggyback ride. One day, I made the mistake of informing my prop that I loved a certain boy. “That one,” I whispered when we actually caught a glimpse of Mark at a soccer game. The little shit never forgot.

      “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I said. “Back in a flash.”

      “Oh, desperation. So ugly,” Freddie said, grinning.

      The mirror over the bathroom sink showed that my cheeks were flushed. My hands were shaking. My heart seemed to be shaking, too.

      For some reason, I thought—with absolutely no evidence, of course … Well. It had crossed my mind that after the little speech in Mark’s office about how irreplaceable I was … combined with the reinforcement of my creative talent … that Mark would … that things would …

      Oh, God. Michelle Obama was right. I was an idiot. “Idiot!” I said to my reflection.

      “Excuse me?” said a woman coming out of the stall.

      “Oh, sorry, sorry,” I said. “Just talking to myself.” I gave her a quick look. “I love your bag. Kate Spade?”

      She smiled. “Yes, actually. Isn’t the color cheery? Hey, is it my imagination, or are those Jeffrey Campbell shoes? Absolutely gorgeous!”

      I smiled back. “They are.”

      Ah, accessories. Always good for a bonding moment.

      She was very pretty … no. She was beautiful. Short, honey-blond hair, big smile, green eyes, Michelle Pfeiffer beautiful. She was also vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her face.

      “So who’s the idiot?” she asked in a friendly tone, washing her hands.

      “I am. Or he is. I don’t quite know. Maybe we both are.”

      She smiled and pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser. “It’s him, I’m sure of it.”

      I grinned. “Thank you. You’re clearly brilliant.”

      She laughed and tossed the paper towels into the trash.

      “So what brings you to our fair city?” I asked, knowing she wasn’t from around here.

      “Oh, I was driving through. Dropped in on a friend, but he wasn’t home.” She fished her car keys out of her adorable purse.

      Booty call gone wrong, I thought. “Well, have a safe ride home.”

      “Thanks,” she said. “Nice talking to you.”

      “You, too.” I felt a warm and fuzzy glow in my heart. People were just the best. I loved people. Most people, anyway.

      Taking a deep breath and smiling determinedly at my reflection, I left the ladies’ room. Whoop & Holler was crammed tonight, and of course I knew nine-tenths of the people there. The River Rats were packed around the bar, as they saw it as their sacred duty to support both alcohol-serving institutions in town. Shaunee Cole was fending off a pass from Harmon Carruthers; Harmon was sweet-talking her, undeterred. Jim O’Byrne had fallen asleep, his forehead resting on a shot glass.

      “Callie! How’s your grandfather?” Robbie Neal asked. He was this year’s River Rat president, a nice enough guy who was married to my eighth-grade gym teacher. “Is he coming to the regatta? It’s the weekend before Halloween, don’t forget.”

      “I’ll work on him,” I said, waving to a few other Rats.

      “We’d be honored to have him,” Robbie said. “Do you think he’d donate a kayak for a raffle we’re doing?”

      “Is it a good cause? Because if it’s for your booze fund, then probably not.” Noah had been known to give a canoe or kayak to various fundraisers over the years, though he pretended to be disgruntled when asked. Five years ago, he donated a beautiful cedar rowboat with caned seats to a children’s hospital fundraiser. It sold for more than twenty grand. Noah had been equal parts proud and disgusted.

      “Sorry to say, Joey Christmas was just diagnosed with cancer,” Robbie said. “No insurance.”

      “Count Noah in, then,” I said instantly. Sure, I’d have to whine and plead for an hour, despite the fact that Noah and I both knew he’d give in … it was just tradition. “I’ll give something, too, if you want.”

      Robbie winked. “How about ten minutes alone with you? We’d get a lot of bids on that one,” he said, dropping his gaze to my chest and sighing appreciatively.

      “Ten minutes, Robbie? Is that all you’d need? How disappointing.” He smiled. “So how’s Joey doing?”

      “You know. You can’t kill a guy that mean. Want a drink, Callie?”

      I noted that Shaunee had let Harmon’s hand stay on her ass. They’d been pretending not to date for years. “No, thanks, Robbie,” I said. “I have to go sprinkle fairy dust.” He nodded as if that made perfect sense. “Don’t let Jim try to drive home,” I added. “Or walk, for that matter. He’ll fall in the river and drown.”

      “You bet, Callie. Tell Noah we said hi.”

      “Sure.”