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I nearly spit out my drink. “Wait—Arturo? She tried to setmeup with Arturo!”
Elliot shook his head. “Oh, that’s incredible.”
“We need to form a support group.”
“Agreed,” Elliot said. “Rule one—never let her introduce us to anyone new.”
I replied, “Rule two—if she invites us both to dinner at the same time, we’re being set up.”
Elliot smirked. “And rule three?”
I leaned in slightly, just enough to be obnoxious. “Rule three—you owe me arealdate, Hart, because this does not count.”
Elliot’s gaze flickered, briefly surprised. Then he grinned. “No?”
“No,” I said. “A Subway sandwich does not a date make, not even to most of my high schoolers.”
Elliot nodded seriously. “Fair enough.”
He leaned back, watching me for a moment.
“You’re not nervous,” he noted.
I frowned. “What?”
“Earlier, you were all flustered,” he said. “Now? Not so much.”
I flushed slightly. “Well. Maybe I’m getting used to you.”
“Good.” Elliot’s lips curled into that slow, dangerous almost-leer. “That’ll come in handy tomorrow night.”
And for the second time in less than an hour, I almost piddled.
Chapter seven
Elliot
Beforetherecouldbedinner with Mike, there was the weekly gathering of the Four Horsemen—well, four friends who wrought havoc by their mere presence.
If someone ever asked me why I willingly subjected myself to dinner with those three maniacs, I honestly wouldn’t have had a solid answer.
Sierra, aka Sisi, was an ER nurse and the kind of woman who could command a room with a single eyebrow raise. Sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and entirely unbothered by social norms, she had a talent for cutting straight to the heart of any situation—usually while sipping a margarita and looking fabulous. Standing at barely five-foot-two, she made up for her height with sheer ferocity and confidence, always dressed like she had somewhere better to be, even if she was just going to Target. Beneath her sass and brutal honesty, though, she was fiercely protective of the people she loved, the kind of friend who would verbally eviscerate anyone who wronged you and then hand you a shot of tequila as a peace offering.
Matty worked with Sisi in the ER. He was pure, unfiltered chaos wrapped in designer clothing and expensive cologne. Loud, dramatic, and completely unapologetic, he was the kind of guy who could turn a casual brunch into a theatrical event. He spoke with his hands, his eyebrows, and his entire body, fully committing to every story he told, every emotion he felt, and every reaction he gave. His laugh was loud and infectious, his wardrobe ridiculously curated, and his opinions immediate and unwavering—especially when it came to pop culture, fashion, or my nonexistent love life. He was a hurricane, a cheerleader, and an absolute menace, and I had absolutely no idea how I ended up friends with him—but for some inexplicable reason, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Omar, Matty’s husband of a hot minute, was the son of a prominent Egyptian diplomat, which explained why his accent—and almost everything about him—was decidedly British. Raised in London surrounded by children of other prominent politicians and royals, he was calm, collected, and infuriatingly unreadable, the kind of guy who could walk into absolute madness and somehow come out untouched. He had a sharp mind, an even sharper wardrobe, and the unsettling ability to win every argument without raising his voice. He also had a dry, understated sense of humor, not too different from mine, and he usually chose to deliver his best lines while sipping wine and watching the rest of the group self-destruct. Omar thrived on watching his friends unravel while he remained effortlessly composed, but when it really mattered, he was solid as a rock.
These were my friends, my adopted family, the misfits I loved more than life—though I never quite understood why.
It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy our nights out—I did—but somewhere between Matty’s dramatic storytelling, Sisi’s unfiltered observations, and Omar’s maddening ability to stay Britishly calm while the rest of us spiraled into chaos, I always left these gatherings deeply exhausted and slightly embarrassed.
Tonight would be no different, I feared.
Matty had picked the restaurant, which should have been my first red flag. The man had taste, sure, but he also hadexpensivetaste. He was the kind of guy who believed food should be “an experience,” which was code for tiny, overpriced portions served on enormous plates by waiters who judged you for ordering a beer instead of wine.
Omar, of course, was completely at home in fancy restaurants. He had an effortless grace that made people assume he belonged wherever he went.
Meanwhile, Sisi looked deeply unimpressed, tapping her nails against the table while scanning the menu with open disdain.