Page 6 of Common Grounds

“Isn’t it generally called ‘sleeping’ when it’s this close to an actual bedtime?”

Vi rolls her eyes. “She has a conference call with some investors in China or something in a few hours.”

“These middle-of-the-night calls can’t be good for her.” I frown.

Violet gives an exasperated sigh. “If you want to try to get her to slow down, be my guest.”

I huff a laugh. No one on the planet can get Cass to slow down, and we both know it. “Sorry, pal. She’s your problem now.”

Vi pulls on her boots and shakes out her dress. When she stands to check herself one last time in the mirror next to the door, I can see her face over her shoulder. She flutters her eyebrows suggestively. “‘Problem’ is not the word I’d use.” She turns her attention back to the mirror and gently adjusts the necklace she always wears. It’s a tiny charm with both her and Cass’s birthstones on it. Blue topaz for Cass and aquamarine for Vi. She always says they were meant to be because the stones are both blue.

I level a glare at her, but the corners of my mouth from turn up slightly all on their own. “You two are so fucking cute.”

She turns around, grinning as she ticks her head toward the door. “Cute and thirsty. Let’s get out of here.”

We walk the half-mile or so to Violet’s bar of choice, The Tipsy Geezer. As the name might suggest, the place caters to an older demographic. The music is loud, but not blaring. There aren’t any flashing lights or dance floors. It’s a dimly lit, cozy pub which makes it a great place to get a beer and chat with a friend.

As soon as we enter, though, we stop in our tracks. A group of about ten raucous men are either crammed in or standing around our favorite booth in the back corner. Vi grumbles something under her breath, but I chuckle. For someone who frequently experiments with wardrobe choices, she’s surprisingly attached to her habits, so I know she’s annoyed by the unavailable booth. The fact that it’s currently occupied by a bunch of annoying dudes only adds salt to the wound.

I slip my arm around her waist and gently lead her to the bar. “Come on. We’ll have the first round over here, then hopefully they’ll leave, and we can move over there. Okay?”

She grumbles again but slides onto one of the high bar stools lining the butcher block counter. I plop onto one next to her. The bartender comes over to take our orders. He must be new here because I’ve never seen him before, and I know without looking that Vi is flaring her nostrils in frustration at another new curveball this evening.

He leans on the bar and flashes Vi a grin, his biceps popping. She pins him with a look that could kill, then orders us a couple of beers in a tone that conveys absolutely zero interest in whatever else he’s offering.

“Cass told me Randall is still humiliating you with these feel-good assignments,” she says as the bartender shuffles away to get our drinks, his ego clearly wounded.

I tip my head back and groan. “It’s not even close to writing real news. One of these days, the journalism police are going to come and confiscate my degree,” I intone.

“You gotta pitch him something heavier, Em.” Apparently, she doesn’t want to engage with my dry humor. “Wasn’t there a story about the misallocation of school funds you were trying to get off the ground?”

The bartender comes back and deposits our glasses in front of us. I take a deep pull from mine, savoring the balance of the bitter hops with an undertone of bananas. I can’t resist a good wheat beer on a hot, summer night. I wipe the remaining foam off my upper lip before responding. “Yeah, but Randall’s not going to be interested in something like that. Or, if I pitch it and he likes it, he’ll probably assign it to Brett or someone he thinks is better suited to the important stories.”

“By ‘better suited’ do you mean—”

“A man? Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“How much longer are you going to work for that pig? You were doing such great stuff at The Gazette. There’s so much untapped potential here. I can’t believe Randall doesn’t see it.”

I shrug. I’ve been over this issue a million times, both in my head and with Vi and Cass. I don’t have an explanation or a solution. What I have are bills to pay and soon, a new little baby to spoil. And frankly, Baker’s Grove Living pays really well. I knew I’d be lucky to find any kind of job in my field after I got laid off. As a feature writer, I thought I might be safe at The Gazette, but no one was. Well, no one except the most senior reporters and, because it was an election year, the political reporters. News, it would seem, is a dying art. Unless it’s about corgi rescues, apparently.

I try to change the subject. “You know what’s better than talking about my sad excuse for employment?”

“Literally anything?” Vi smirks as she raises her glass to her lips. She winces as a round of particularly thunderous laughter comes from the group at the back of the bar.

I snicker at her discomfort. “Well, yeah. But specifically, how you’re feeling about baby Darlis-Jacobson making their arrival in a couple of months. How you hanging in there, Mama?”

Since I’ve known her, Vi has been all hard edges and blunt force. Her love language is punching your nemesis in the face—literally. We became best friends in fourth grade because she shoved Davy Jenkins on the playground for teasing me about my outfit. But when I mention the baby, she melts. Her blue eyes search mine, full of earnestness and hope and unfiltered joy.

“Em, I’ve never been this happy in my entire life.”

“You’re getting soft in your old age,” I tease.

“You take that back.” She reaches over and shoves my shoulder so hard I almost topple over.

I laugh again, rubbing my upper arm. Vi looks behind me, and her eyes catch on whatever she sees, so I twist slightly to check it out. A man has appeared next to me, an empty glass resting on the counter between his corded forearms as he leans against the bar. He has thick, golden-brown hair that has been styled but still falls over his forehead, and stubble that looks disheveled but purposeful. His cheekbones are high and prominent, and I swear they could actually cut glass. His shoulders are broad, but he’s lean in that hipster kind of way, with a dark t-shirt that clings to his torso and skinny jeans that show a little ankle above his flat sneakers.

I slowly turn my back to him and glare at Vi, whose eyes are flashing with mischief as she notices the same thing I just did: this guy is sexy as hell.

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