Page 39 of Play Along With Me
"Drinks are in the kitchen," Collin tells us, his hand lingering on my lower back as he guides us through the crowd. "Make yourselves at home. Mingle. Network. It's a great crowd tonight."
He's quickly pulled away by someone calling his name, leaving us to navigate on our own. Leila leans close to my ear.
"Kitchen?" she suggests. "I need alcohol to deal with the levels of cologne in this room."
I nod in agreement, and we make our way toward what I assume is the kitchen, based on the number of people emerging with drinks. The apartment is impressive—open floor plan, high ceilings, modern furniture that actually matches. Collin might be annoying, but he has good taste, or at least enough money to hire someone with good taste.
"Wine?" Leila asks, spotting bottles on the counter.
"Yes, please," I nod. "The biggest glass they have."
She pours us each a generous serving of red wine, and I take a fortifying sip, already feeling slightly overwhelmed by the noise and crowd.
"So," Leila says casually, surveying the room. "See any hockey players?"
"I'm not looking for hockey players," I lie.
"Sure you're not," she smirks. "Just like you're not smoothing your hair every thirty seconds."
I immediately drop my hand from my hair, caught again. "It's frizzy tonight."
"It's perfect," Leila assures me. "Now, let's circulate. Meet people. Be social butterflies."
"I told you I'm more of a social moth."
"Well, spread your moth wings and flutter toward some conversation," she urges, gently pushing me away from the safety of the kitchen corner.
I take another large gulp of wine and turn to face the room, scanning the crowd one more time. And that's when I seehim—Jake, standing across the room deep in conversation with an older man in a suit.
He looks different than he did at the restaurant—more relaxed in jeans and a navy shirt that fits him perfectly. His hair is slightly tousled, and he's gesturing animatedly about something, clearly in his element.
I should say hello. It would be weird not to acknowledge him, especially after our dinner together. But what would I say? "Hey, nice to see you, remember when I lied about my cat's nonexistent medical condition?"
Before I can decide on an approach, Jake looks up and his eyes meet mine across the room. He smiles—a genuine smile that reaches his eyes—and gives me a small wave.
And despite my best intentions, I find myself smiling back.
He says something to the man he's talking with, then makes his way through the crowd toward me. I take a large gulp of wine, mentally scrambling for something clever to say that doesn't involve knock-knock jokes or fictional feline illnesses.
"Audrey," he says when he reaches me, his voice warm. "You came to your neighbor's party."
"Apparently," I reply, gesturing vaguely with my wine glass. "Though technically I was coerced by Leila and emotional blackmail involving an incident at a Michael Bublé concert that we don't talk about."
"Sounds serious," Jake says with mock gravity. "Should I be concerned about Bublé himself showing up tonight?"
"God, I hope not. One public humiliation per month is my limit."
He laughs, and the sound is unexpectedly pleasant—deep and genuine, not the performative chuckle most men deploy at a woman's attempt at humor.
"Congratulations, by the way," I add. "Collin mentioned you got called up to the Saints? That sounds... significant."
"It is," he nods, something lighting up in his eyes. "I've been working toward this for basically my entire life."
"Well then, extra congratulations," I say, meaning it. "It's not every day someone achieves their lifelong dream. Most people just settle for adequate health insurance and a job that makes them cry in the bathroom."
"Speaking from experience?"
"My bathroom crying is strictly reserved for creative frustration and encounters with exes at wedding receptions," I clarify. "My jobs are fine. Mostly."
