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“Thanks for being here, guys,” Cal squeaked.
“You’re most unwelcome. I have stock in Row’s brand. It is in my benefit that this line doesn’t crash and burn,” Tate drawled monotonously. “I’m not doing it out of the goodness of my heart.”
“I know,” Cal chirped. “Because you don’t have one.”
“Long time no see.” Kieran clapped my shoulder. “How’re you doing, Rhy?”
“Never been better,” I lied. My entire future, hopes, and dreams hung on Bruce Marshall, and I was becoming poorer by the nanosecond. “How ’bout you? Up to more destruction this month since leading Dylan to the bar her ex works in?”
“Come on, Rhy. We need to let her figure it out on her own.” Cal made a sympathetic face. “Now Dylan has the chance to have Tucker help her raise Gravity.”
“A chance she never asked for. You okay with this shit?” I cut my gaze to Row. The way he worked his jaw back and forth in response told me he wasn’t.
“Maybe he’s changed,” he muttered noncommittally.
“Sure. Nothing says ‘redemption’ like deciding you suddenly wanna take a part in your kid’s life when your ex walks in looking like sin on legs,” I snarled.
“Someone’s taking their fake engagement pretty fucking seriously.” Tate gave me a less bored once-over.
“Hold on a minute. Something’s missing.” Kieran frowned at me.
“Probably his balls,” Tate drawled. “He’s been fake-dating this chick for less than a month and is already whining about her ex.”
“Watch it,” Row warned Tate, but I kind of wanted Tate to take it further so I’d finally have an excuse to rearrange his face like I did Tucker’s.
Kieran tore off his horn-rimmed shades, cocking his head sideways and folding the arms of his glasses. “You cut your stupid ponytail.”
“Man bun,” I corrected. “And hold the press—we found this generation’s Sherlock.” I craned my neck, searching for Dylan. We hadn’t come here together, because she’d had an early shift at the Alchemist. She was making good money. At least one of us was.
“Has Tucker seen Gravity yet?” Row asked.
“No,” Kieran and Cal answered in unison.
That was a relief. I hadn’t asked Cosmos about it—I made a point not to take an interest in Gravity when she wasn’t right in front of me—but I didn’t trust that bastard with the kid.
“Mr. Casablancas.” A woman holding an iPad and a headset mic approached us. “They’re ready for you to take the stage.” She slid her finger over the screen. “Do you remember the verbiage? ‘Grill or no grill, I’m happy to unveil the Grill Deal’?”
Row nodded at her in reply.
Tate sneered. “When does the name becomes less cringy?”
“Never is my guess.” Kieran winced.
Cal shot them both warning looks.
As it turned out, Dylan didn’t make it to the Times Square event. Neither did Bruce and his wife. But I watched as my best friend killed it with the crowd, signing his cookbooks, taking pictures with fans, and selling five thousand units of that ridiculous kit, before we all folded to the after-party at Row’s eatery, Casablancas, in Bryant Park, a rooftop restaurant he’d opened last year as an homage to his wife, who was craving—sit down for it—fish fingers.
The bistro had a more modern feel to it than La Vie en Rogue, with cracked turquoise marble for floors, dimmed lighting, and an entire semitransparent wall that was also an aquariumcontaining some of the most colorful and rare fish in the world. It was dark, moody, and sexy.
I was the last to walk in, since I’d actually driven here and didn’t have a chauffeur like all my billionaire friends. When I got in, I saw all of them seated at a long table in the farthest corner of the VIP section, sipping drinks and laughing. Bruce and Jolene were there too, chatting to Cal and Kieran animatedly. Tate had another faceless model on his arm. The place was jam-packed. I moved through the mass of bodies, searching for my fake fiancée.
“Sorry, passing through. Passi—”
Gentle hands scrapped my back from behind, and when I turned to look at the person trying to cut in front of me, Cosmos was staring back. She was breathtaking in a powder-pink dress, her tresses cascading down her shoulders. Her mouth fell open as soon as she saw me.
“You cut your hair.”
“Yeah.”