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To Alex:––And no, I'm not exactly partying. Clarkson said there would be reviewers and journalists here––tho all I see is about a hundred people half my age having twice as much fun.

Clarkson arrived with a margarita in each hand and a wide smile on his face. He handed one of them over, and she lifted the obscenely neon pink stemware to her lips.

"There you go sweetheart," he said with another wink. "And don't worry. I've booked a room where we can have some privacy."

The sentence sent a shock wave through her, and the involuntary sharp intake of breath sent tequila and some rimming salt down the wrong way. She coughed heavily, and would have sloshed the cocktail all over herself and Clarkson if he hadn't swooped in to support her drink.

"Whoa, you're alright, right?"

He was gingerly patting her back and sounded panicked. He held out one of the equally neon green paper napkins.

"I'm fine…" she croaked, "…sorry."

"No need to be sorry. Just don't die on me, ok? I want my reputation to be as a Lady Killer, not a lady-killer."

Laughing did not improve the breathing situation, but she had to admit it was nice to laugh. Well, she would admit it when she caught her breath back.

"Stop it. Don't make me laugh," she said, tears in her eyes.

"Can't help it, I'm a brilliant man to date––funny, charming, brings you cocktails," he quipped.

"Gee, thanks," she replied, dabbing under her eyes with the folded napkin he had handed her.

Her phone pinged again, and she cleared her throat to look at it.

From Alex: Not NOT a text convo. Like I said, it's nothing bad or anything. I just thought you'd want to talk in person about it, right?

She smiled. She liked that he was thinking about her reaction as well as giving her time to prepare herself for the discussion.

To Alex: You’re right. You’ll be in to bake in the morning?

Alex's presence at the café was still pretty constant, but he had taught her how to bake a few of the simpler things so that he wasn't entirely split between basically volunteering at Café Bruno and running his own actual business.

"Everything ok? You look worried?" Clarkson interjected.

"I'm fine." She laughed. "Just wondering if tequila straight to the lungs is like drinking five shots in a row."

Clarkson laughed. "I think if you inhaled enough tequila to intoxicate you, we'd be calling the ambulance."

She laughed but swallowed hard. What had he meant by booking a room? She hadn't given him THAT impression? Right? Frances ran through their interactions to try and pinpoint where she might have implied she wanted to get a room, simultaneously berating herself and hating the fact that she felt she needed to audit her jokes and mannerisms in case he had misinterpreted something.

No,she decided, and stopped. Even if he had decided that her coming out with him tonight was some kind of invitation, she hadn't done anything to encourage that, and she would just have to be firm.

"Clarkson, this private room..."

He stood up, beaming in what she now recognized as his business face.

"Madeline, Gus! Over here!" he called, waving.

Madeline and Gus? Who?

"Clarkson, you didn't say the venue was a rave," an overly tall man said, a lilt in his voice making the tone playful instead of a reprimand. "I'd have brought my catsuit and feather boa if you'd said."

Frances smiled. Funnily enough, if he had shown up in a catsuit and feather boa, he wouldn't have even stood out that much. In fact, she was pretty sure there had been a man wearing a fully sequined and skin tight three piece suit dancing near the entrance. Being here with all these eccentric and showy people made her feel like she was right back in La La Land.

"Yes, you could have mentioned I'd nearly be denied entrance," a woman's voice from beside Gus said.

Frances leaned around to try and see the speaker, who she presumed was Madeline. Sure enough, a woman stood nearly two feet shorter than the immensely tall Gus, who must have been at least six foot nine, judging by where Clarkson came up to on him.