He laughs, then talks about getting to know Toby back at UCLA. I am the opposite of surprised to learn that Toby was his tutor in one of their business classes, that my sweet-natured boss “had no game,” and that Wickham’s role after passing the class was as wingman when they went out.

He bumps my shoulder. “So. Toby mentioned you have an interesting weekend gig?”

“Oh?” The syllable comes out sharp. I never know how people will react to my involvement in the burlesque scene. I wonder what opinions Wickham might have—he’s not giving off the Wall Street–asshole vibe, but I’ve been disappointed before.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “He wasn’t being judgmental. I looked into Meryton. Pretty swank.”

My hackles drop. “I love it. I’m the stage kitten, so I pick up what they take off.”

“I confess I don’t know a lot about burlesque.” His smile is almost shy, a far cry from the cocksure swagger he had for so much of our exchange. “Would you mind if I come by some time?”

I would decidedly not mind this. “Tonight’s a jazz show, but if it’s burlesque that has you interested, my roommate’s singing at a revue in Bushwick in an hour. It’ll take about as much time to get there, but it’s a solid lineup.”

“Man, I wish I could. But it’s still work hours on the West Coast, and I have calls.” He holds up his glass. “This should make them pretty interesting, though.” He clinks his glass with mine before we both take another drink.

I wiggle my eyebrows, ignoring the faint disappointment accompanying the burn in my chest. “Just remember to smile.”

CHAPTER

8

“Is this heaven?” I ask.

“You’re blocking the doorway,” says Jane. He plucks my admission from my fingers and hands it to the guy at the door, who wears an MP armband and helmet.

“Don’t care,” I say, but let Jane nudge me past the threshold. I send my attention around the room, not wanting to miss a single detail. The venue where Jane’s performing tonight has a USO theme, and whoever decorated it went all out. The little foyer is walled with framed photos of Bob Hope: dancing with Raquel Welch, flashing a peace sign with Ann-Margret, and mingling with countless soldiers over decades of service.

Jane keeps pushing me forward as I risk whiplash trying to take it all in, but I stop short to gawk at the bar. Above it protrudes the nose of a plane, complete with a bikini-clad blonde lounging against the words “California Girl.”

“This is awesome,” I marvel. “In the purest sense of the word. I am awed right now.”