Spinning, spinning, spinning. “I thought you wanted to head over to my place.”

She dismisses my question with a flail of her hands. “We can do that later. For now, though, I think it would be wise to get in some practice. In an unrehearsed scenario. We’re not going to have dossiers or the benefit of a script for any of these outings with Kimberly Bailey, so we should get comfortable winging it. Somehow I don’t think that’s one of your strengths.”

She’s not wrong. That my first instinct was to make up a sketchy story about my canceled wedding is proof alone of that. Besides, spending time with Solange isn’t a chore. So, yeah, if she wants to simulate a night out on the town to help us work out any kinks, I’m all for it. I look down at my attire. “I’m probably not dressed for what you have in mind, though.”

“This place is casual. You’ll fit right in.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

Practice is a good thing. And given what’s at stake, I appreciate that Solange is willing to put in this extra effort. Besides, it would be better to stumble through our performance now than when it actually matters. I mean, how much trouble can we get into in a bar?

Chapter Eight

Solange

Dean and I weave our way through the crowd at Sip City, one of my favorite nightspots on U Street, and step up to the only area along the twenty-foot-long bar that isn’t occupied by a patron. Brandon wordlessly slides us two stools from behind the counter, and Dean wastes no time setting them down so we can stake our claim on the space.

It pays to have friends in important places.

The crowd is thick, a riot of disparate conversations buzzing around us, punctuated by an occasional cheer coming from the karaoke room nearby. Although the clientele’s diverse, as is often the case in DC, the clusters of friends hanging out are more homogenous.

“Okay if I leave you alone for a minute?” Dean asks, his minty breath warm against my ear. “I need to use the restroom.”

I try not to shiver—and fail. “Sure.”

Dean draws back. “Are you cold?”

“I’m good,” I say, not meeting his eyes and adjusting my cropped cardigan so it covers my shoulders. “There’s a draft above us, I think.” And it’s sending your highly potent pheromones my way.

“Okay,” he says, tapping the bar rail. “Be right back.”

“Should I order you anything?” I ask before he goes.

“Water’s fine for now.”

Of course it is.

As soon as he’s gone, Brandon sidles over, dragging a dishrag over the countertop.

“Water for Dean and a Blackberry Jam for me,” I tell him. “And thanks for holding a spot for us.”

“Why the change in plans?” he asks.