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Hannah continues to tug me into the restaurant before bypassing the hostess stand and weaving through the tables to the door that leads to the outdoor seating we passed.

“There she is.”

I follow her finger to a blonde girl wearing large sunglasses sitting at the farthest table. Something about her prickles my brain.

We get closer and the blonde looks up from her phone, a glossy smile spreading across her face as she lifts her sunglasses onto the top of her head.

My feet falter.

What on earth wastheBridget Vaughn doing here?

“Hey, Hannah.” She stands up and shuffles around the table to give my best friend a giant hug.

I am literally so confused right now.

“Hey. Sorry, hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Not at all! I did pop in an order of oysters, though.”

“Love! And thanks. This one took forever to get ready.” She tosses a hand back to me, as though I wasn’t the one waiting for her to get her eyeliner into the perfect wing.

I ignore my desire to call her out and instead hold my hand out to Bridget, which I retroactively realize is a little weird. Should I hug her? I mean, she’sBridget Vaughn.

“Hi, I’m Verity.”

“Bridget.” Her palm is warm as she shakes my hand.

“How do you two know each other?”

Hannah shrugs. “We met the other day.”

Not helpful.

“I had Hannah help me with something, and we got to chatting when she DMed me later.” Bridget offers me a softer smile.

I met Bridget for all of three seconds the other week at the Kelton event. We didn’t even exchange words. I’d just seen herwith her hands looped around Cullen’s arm before I dragged Celine away.

She’d never come up in conversation, but they’d given the impression of being close. Either that or she’d been hitting on Cullen. Considering she is engaged to Frankie Jones, I doubt the second scenario. Except Bridget is known for being notoriously messy in the media and branded as an airhead. I grew up seeing the most outlandish articles about her doing stuff only rich kids could get away with.

There was a time when I’d idolized her, wanted a life of freedom and opulence like hers, but as I got older, I realized just how sad her story really was.

I’m still not sure what’s going on here but decide to put my questions on the back burner.

Hannah and I take our seats at the square table, sitting opposite Bridget, who has her giant designer handbag perched on the seat beside her. The table is set for six people, which seems a little odd.

“You’re working with Frankie, right?” Bridget grabs the two champagne flutes in front of Hannah and me and starts filling them up with what at first looks like orange juice, but I assume is mimosa, from a large carafe at the end of the table.

“Yeah, my team is in charge of his merch branding. My coworker is leading it, but I’m joining the meeting next week.”

“I hope he doesn’t give you too much trouble. I know he can be a little bit chaotic at times.” She slides the full flute across the table.

“Thanks, and no, it’s been going fine.”

Lie.

But I’m not going to tell Bridget that her fiancé is, in fact, one of the most chaotic clients I’ve seen in a hot minute. He changes his mind every five seconds but also takes forever to respond to any of our emails. Anne is constantly on the phonewith his manager to follow up on things, and I suspect she is slowly coming to regret taking on the project. Which is how I have finally been dragged into it so I can help control some of the chaos that seems to be swirling.

Frankie is one of those influencers who thinks he is hot shit because of the number of followers he has and that it means everyone else will bend to his every whim, no matter how ridiculous it is.