Page 58 of The Hot Shot

“Let the guy answer for himself, Chess.”

She shoots me a reproving look. “I’m trying to make him feel welcome,Finn.”

“He knows he’s welcome. I just asked him to join us.”

Charlie chuckles, interrupting us. “You two sound like my grandparents.”

“Surely not as old as that,” I exclaim in mock horror.

Chess tsks at me.

Charlie flashes a grin. “I mean the way you two go on like you’ve known each other forever.”

The words invade the room like the drunken uncle no one wants to acknowledge but can’t ignore. Chess and I eye each other for a long moment, neither of us knowing what to say. But then she purses her lips as if mildly entertained.

“Sure feels like it sometimes,” she mutters before turning on her heel and striding toward the kitchen, her long dark hair swinging like a pendulum over her pert butt.

I watch that jiggle and sway, and my dick twitches in response. Next to me, Charlie makes a choked sound of amusement. “Man...”

I glance his way. “Yeah, I know.”

Chess

“I cannot believe you didn’t call me,” James scolds over the phone.

I open another one of Finn’s cabinets in search of a platter. The man has ten different sets of beer glasses, yet barely a serving tray or bread bowl to be found. “Did you miss the part where I said I lost my phone?”

“You could have borrowed one!”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t have people’s numbers memorized?” I mutter, moving on to the next cabinet.

“Good point.” Horns blare in the background, and I wonder if he’s outside. “Where are you?”

“Headed toward the MoMA.” He’s slightly out of breath when he speaks again. “Don’t worry, as soon as we’re through, I’m booking tickets home.”

Finally, I find a cheese tray and a few shallow bowls that might be used for crackers or bread. The price stickers are still on them. I have a vision of Finn’s mom buying him these, stocking his kitchen for parties he’ll never have.

“Don’t do that,” I tell James as I pick off the sticker on the tray. “There’s no need.”

“What do you mean there’s no need?” he exclaims. “Your freaking home just got crisped. Of course I’m coming back.”

“No, really, James, I’m all right. Stay with Jamie. Have fun.”

He lets out an audible huff. “I’m coming back. What kind of shit friend do you think I am?”

Setting the tray down, I get to work on unwrapping my cheeses. “I’m fine. Seriously. I have a temporary place to stay, and the insurance company is actually being very helpful.”

“What about work? Or the calendar?”

“The computer guys were able to get the files off my busted laptop and transfer it onto my new one, so I can easily finish up the calendar work. I’ve had to drop a few jobs...” Which is going to sting financially. “But I bought enough basic equipment that I can work the Ducain wedding, which I really can do on my own. And we don’t have anything major for another month.”

James makes a noise of assent. “What about the loft? How long until you can go back?”

“It’s destroyed. I’ll need to find a new place. Frankly, I want to pull a Scarlett O’Hara and not think about that today.”

“I always thought you’d make a great Scarlett. Snapping green eyes, inky dark hair, creamy skin—”

“Perfect resting bitch face?” I offer with a snort.