Page 97 of The Sebastian Guarantee
He did—and he had to get to work. He glanced around the table. “LETIS Live is tomorrow, right?”
“It is,” Bernadette affirmed. “The Marieuse Group will be in attendance. We’re always looking for investment opportunities.”
Her reply sparked another question. “Speaking of investment opportunities, do you mind me asking about your interest in Jeremy Drewler?” He needed to know how the douchebag factored into the equation.
“I can answer that,” Madelyn purred. “Our interest in Jeremy Drewler could be classified as a side pursuit.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you set things in motion and let fate do the rest?”
“When an obstruction is a person who is in need of a comeuppance and happens to be a real”—Madelyn turned toward him and tapped her foot five times—“there are times when one must work within their network to intervene appropriately.”
He suppressed a grin. “I see.”
“There’s no place in this world for misogynistic wankers,” Bernadette supplied.
These women were undeniably formidable.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said, in awe of the group, then spied Tula out of the corner of his eye.
“I’m back, Sebby,” his sister chimed as she bobbed toward them in her frankfurter glory. “Hi, Miss Malone,” she exclaimed, hugging the matchmaker. “Hi, ladies!” She plopped onto his lap.
“This is my sister, Tula Cress.”
“Tula,” Madelyn began, “these are my friends, Mae, Bernadette, and Claudette.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Tula answered brightly, then turned to Madelyn. “Mibby said she was so happy to see you the other day. She showed me the picture she took with you, her, Penny, Harper, and my friend Ivy’s mom, Charlotte. You were holding up fancy triangle wine glasses. They had little sticks with tiny balls on them, and they’re called bikinis.”
“The word ismartini, Tula, dear, and yes, it was lovely seeing old friends.”
“Martinis?” he repeated, recalling Phoebe’s bender that had been conveniently covered by an anonymous benefactor.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Tula continued, “because I brought everyone a love-match hot dog.”
Love-match hot dog?
He eyed his sister. “What are you talking about, Tula?”
“I went with my new friends to get a food truck hot dog from Hank. He got excited about his new hot dog and wanted to talk to you. Tell ’em, Hank.”
The tattooed food truck vendor strode toward them with a tray crammed with hot dogs. “These are my newest bestsellers. A Hank dog with ketchup, mustard, and a heap of lettuce. Phoebe came up with it. I got the name from her, too. She told me the person who ate her love-match hot dog would be the one for her.”
The one.
Tula had also called Phoebe the one.
“It’s the one you ate,” Hank said, handing him a hot dog identical to the one he’d inhaled while Phoebe was in the dressing room at the boutique. “Remember, I called out to you when you were helping Phoebe get home? You said it was everything you didn’t know you wanted.”
That’s right.
“And I almost forgot to give you this, Sebby,” Tula said, slipping a metallic ball from a little pocket hidden beneath a patch of fabric mustard. “I found it in your backpack. I put something inside it. Open it and see what it is.”
He loosened the layers of tinfoil. “Tula,” he breathed, eyeing the item he hadn’t seen in many, many years.
She leaned into him. “I thought you might need it. I don’t think Daddy will be mad.”
From lightning to love-match hot dogs, the signs were unmistakable. Phoebe Gale was his match.
“No, I don’t think he’ll be mad at all,” he replied, feeling his mother’s presence. He gazed at the matchmaker. “How do you do it?”
