My chest goes tight again. She could be looking at anything: order forms for the kitchen, bar stock, toilet paper inventory. But the tension rolling off of her says otherwise.

I sidle over with a conciliatory grimace. “Sorry again about the Mad Libs.”

She waves off the apology, barely looking up from the paper. “I shouldn’t have been so snippy about it.” Her voice is flat, doing nothing for the sensation in my chest.

I press my hands into prayer, playing up some kicked-puppy eyes. “Do we get bubbles or are we on the naughty list?”

Her dull expression sharpens. “The prosecco! I’m sorry, pet.” She takes off her glasses, squeezing the bridge of her nose. “Michael! Be a luv and get Kitten a bottle for downstairs?” The bartender holds up his index finger to let me know it will be a moment and gets back to a guest.

I nod to the stack of paper. “Everything okay?”

She swishes her martini glass on the bar top, setting the contents swirling. “It’s Manhattan real estate, darling. Nothing’s ever okay.” She exaggerates the last word with a hard American accent.

Unease crawls up my spine. “Is this . . .” I don’t want to voice the nameless worry and try to keep my tone light. “Related to the new scheduling?”

Her silence speaks for her. My stomach drops.

“Andrea—”

“Don’t fret.” The two words are an order. “It’s not what you think.”

I cross my arms, unwilling to play along. “What do I think, then?”

“Kitten!” Michael calls from the opposite end of the bar. “Want your bubbles?” Andrea snags her martini, spared further interrogation.

I push off the bar. “This conversation isn’t over.”

She clutches her free hand to her chest. “I’m shaking in my ankle boots, kitty cat.”

I hold my hand up, fingers curled like claws, and she blows me a kiss before shooing me away, reading glasses already back in place.

Michael greets me with a bottle of prosecco and a smile. The bar’s muted lighting gives his shaved head a soft glow. “You’re looking gorgeous this evening. New glad rags?”

“Newish.” I smooth my hands down the cool satin of my emerald corset. “But don’t think I’m going to let you be evasive, too. What’s going on?” I tip my head toward Andrea. She and Michael are close, and he’s as generous with his gossip as he is with his pours.

“It’s fine. Or, it should be.” He sends a cautious glance toward our manager, and I lean against the bar, the corset boning pressing into my ribs. His voice is low, his mouth barely moving as he says, “She’s trying to buy the building.”

“What?” I angle closer. I’m going to have a bruise from the corset boning, but I don’t care. “Can she swing that?”