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“No shit.” Ali groans. “Mexican and martinis?”

“How about margaritas?”

“Can you make those?” Ali asks.

“Have mix, will pour.”

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get pouring!”

***

“Okay, what gives?” Ali asks me after her third margarita.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re unusually quiet.”

“Am I?”

Ali sets her glass onto an end table and looks me dead in the eye. “You like her.”

I know who she’s referring to. I have no intention of admitting I know. “I like a lot of people.”

“Brooklyn. You like her.”

“What’s not to like? She’s charming.” Utterly.

“She’s charming?” Ali laughs. “You have the hots for her.”

No. Yes. Do I? I like Brooklyn. I imagine many people find Brooklyn attractive, and I would guess a lot of people are attracted to Brooklyn.

“You do,” Ali repeats herself.

“I don’t have the hots for her.”

“Really?”

“Do you have the hots for Brooklyn?” I wonder.

“Hell yes.”

That is more honesty than I expected. I imagine I have the margaritas to thank for that. “I get it now. You wanted me to hire Brooklyn, so you could find an excuse to get a little closer.”

Ali laughs. “Brooklyn’s not interested in me.”

“How can you be sure?”

“She’s not. I’m not interested in her either. I’m not dead. Brooklyn is hot.”

I sip my drink without comment.

“Okay. What is up with you?” Ali asks.

“Nothing. I just don’t know why you keep asking me about someone I barely know.”

“You barely knew Andrea, and you moved in with her a week after you—”

“Yes, I recall. We both know how that ended.”