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“Oh, no you don’t.” Her hand wraps around my bicep, pointy nails digging in. “You are not going after her.”

“I’m not going after Celine.” I try to shake her off.

“Doesn’t look that way to me, mister.”

“I’m serious. I—”

“What are you two doing?” Rafe’s bored tone slices into our bickering.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Bridget mocks. “Be useful and help me stop this idiot from causing a tabloid meltdown.”

“Isn’t that your forte?”

“Not funny, Rafe.”

Rafe gives her a quick once over before ignoring her and addressing me. “I saw Celine.”

“Did you know she would be here?”

The accusation slips out, but Rafe just drawls, “Really?”

“Her company was on the invitation.”

“You think I read the invitation?”

“Oh my God, what is with you men? You don’t pay attention to anything,” Bridget huffs.

Her grip on my bicep loosens, and I use the opportunity to tug myself from her grip before she realizes.

“We can leave. I’ve seen enough and I’d rather not run into that woman either.” Rafe inclines his head to the entrance.

“I can’t.” I glance back at the balcony briefly. “Verity’s here.”

“You invited her?”

“No, she—I’m not sure. She was with Celine.”

A hint of emotion shows as Rafe’s thick brows lift slightly. “Your girlfriend was hanging with your ex?”

“You have a girlfriend?” Bridget’s voice rises, pulling the attention of people nearby. Rafe gives her a look, and she purses her lips, leaning forward, repeating but this time in a loud whisper, “A girlfriend?”

“Does she work with Celine?” Rafe questions.

I shrug. “I have no clue. I never asked where she worked.”

It’s never come up. Verity and I have talked about a bunch of things during our dates and phone calls, but we’ve still only known each other for less than three weeks. I know she has a sweet tooth and that mint chocolate is her favorite ice cream flavor, unless she goes to the place on Houston. Then she gets the pistachio chip (she seems to have a thing for green ice cream). But I’d only just learned what college she went to and that she’d initially been an econ major before switching to graphic design her sophomore year. She’d had to take community college classes during the summer to catch up on credits to graduate on time. But I’ve never asked what company she specifically worked for, and I don’t think she’s asked me either.

“My guess is they work together—she called her Ms. Delute.” Bridget nudges me. “Look her up.”

That’s not a bad idea. There is just one tiny issue.

“I don’t know her last name.”

Bridget’s lips part and she blinks at me three times before her face screws up and she whisper yells, “Are you serious? How do you not know your own girlfriend’s last name? What is wrong with you?”

“We only officially started dating last night,” I whisper yell back, getting defensive.

“Oh my God. Men.” She raises her hands and curls her fingers inward like she wants to squish my skull. “Do you even have her socials?”