Almost Like Love(2)
Oh, great. Who’d told Jessica about—
“Tom and I ran into Chris tonight, and he told us what happened. He asked if he could bring Anastasia to the wedding.”
Anastasia? Her name was Anastasia? No wonder Chris hadn’t mentioned it when he’d announced that he’d fallen in love with another woman.
“Tom said yes before I could say a word. But after we left the restaurant, I made him promise that if you have a problem with it, we’ll tell Chris he can’t bring her. After all, you’re in the wedding party—and I’ve known you longer than he’s known Chris.”
Kate’s hand tightened around the phone. There was a roaring in her ears—the sound of a dam breaking, or possibly her head exploding.
“Of course I don’t have a problem with it.”
Her voice was eerily calm. Reasonable. Sweet, even.
“Oh, Kate—you’re so brave! And don’t worry. We have plenty of time before the wedding to scrounge up a date for you. You won’t have to face Chris alone.”
Jessica was going to scrounge up a date for her?
The roaring grew loader.
“You don’t have to do that. I already have a date.”
Her mouth, apparently, had decided to lead its own life.
“You do? Who is it?”
“No one you know,” Kate said quickly. “He’s, um, a rebound fling.”
“A rebound fling? You’re having a rebound fling? What’s he like?”
An excellent question.
“Well, uh . . . he’s not much in the brains department, but he’s amazing in bed.”
“You’ve had sex already?”
Considering that Kate had had sex with exactly three men in her life and had been single today for a total of six hours, Jessica had some reason to sound stunned.
“Yep. Lots and lots of sex. Actually, I think that’s him at the door. He must be back for a”—what was the phrase?—“booty call. So I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
She stuffed the phone back into her purse and took a deep breath. For the first time tonight, she no longer felt like an awkward giant beside her petite friend. She felt like a Valkyrie. Like Athena going into battle. Like . . .
Simone was grinning at her. “You’re having a rebound fling with a fictional guy?”
“He won’t be fictional for long.”
Her friend raised an eyebrow. “Really. And where are you planning to find him?”
Kate nodded towards the club. “In there.”
Simone looked skeptical. “I don’t think the men in there are your type.”
“Exactly. I’m sick of my type. I’m sick of people like Jessica assuming I’ll sit in my apartment and cry over Chris until her wedding, which I’ll be forced to go to alone because I couldn’t scrounge up a date. I’m sick of . . . I’m sick of . . .”
And suddenly it came out—the truth that had been bubbling up inside her since the network cancelled her show and her fiancé cancelled their relationship.
“I’m sick of myself. I’m sick of being the well-meaning idiot everyone feels sorry for. I’m sick of always trying to do the right thing and always getting screwed. I’m sick of thinking about everyone but me.”
The bustier didn’t seem so painful as reckless courage swept through her. “From this moment forward, I’m going to be a selfish bitch. I’m going into that club to find a man with tattoos and piercings and bad news written all over him. I’m going to bring him to Jessica’s wedding and make Chris Corrigan eat his cheating heart out. I’m going to use him for sex, and then I’m going to dump him. Ruthlessly.”
“Ruthlessly?”
“Ruthlessly.”
Simone patted her shoulder. “Okeydokey. Let’s go find you a rebound fling.”
Kate’s newfound confidence faltered for a moment. “Can we have a drink first?”
“Absolutely. Many, many, many drinks.”
Ian Hart didn’t usually spend his Friday nights in East Village clubs, or any club, for that matter. His partying days had been over for a long time. And even if he did want to go out, he wouldn’t have gone tonight. He was in a lousy mood, and he’d give anything to be home right now, going over last week’s ratings and financial reports.
Unfortunately, this was a special occasion. Mick Kalen, one of his oldest friends, was getting married tomorrow, and this was where the best man had decided to hold the bachelor party.
So Ian had gotten a babysitter for his nephew, dug out a pair of jeans from the back of his closet, and put on his old leather jacket over a long-sleeved shirt. Now he was sitting at a big round table covered with shot glasses, wondering exactly how much Wild Turkey it would take for him to go from pretending to have a good time to actually having a good time.