Page 36 of The Frog Prince

I think it’s time to order another beer.

*

By the timeI head home, I’ve had shish kebab and dolmades, fried cheese and pita bread. I grew up on Greek and Armenian food in Central California, and the kebabs and pita bread remind me of home. As I unlock the door to my apartment, the city feels a little smaller, a little friendlier, and I’ve even agreed to have dinner sometime with Paul so we can continue our discussion on the great American novel.

It’s probably not the smartest thing I’ve done, but surely it can’t be as bad as going out with Tom Lehman.

Speaking of Tom, he calls over the weekend. Twice on Saturday. Once on Sunday. And then when he fails to reach me on the phone, he drops by in person late Sunday afternoon.

Thank God I’m actually out when he stops by, and he’s forced to leave a note on the back of his business card, which he slid under the door.

I return from the Laundromat (Cindy has a washing machine and drier in the garage, but it’s hers, not her tenant’s) and find the business card, feel as if I’ve escaped the death penalty, and am about to close the door when Cindy’s footsteps echo on the stairs above me.

“Holly.”

It’s a command. I’m to wait. And shifting the laundry basket onto my other hip, I do.

She’s in khakis, a tight black top, and casual khaki Skechers, and her dark hair is in a trim, immaculate ponytail. “Your friend—I don’t know his name—stopped by.” She sounds disgusted.

He must have parked in the driveway.

“I told him you weren’t here, and Drew was trying to move his car.”

I was right. It is about the driveway.

“Drew had to wait for your friend to leave.”

Just how long did it take for Tom to write his note? It was only a business card, for Christ’s sake.

“You know the garage and driveway are reserved.”

For your use only.Yes, I know that. But I don’t say it. I don’t say anything. I’ve had a great day at the Laundromat, sorting my whites and folding my underwear while being watched by a group of freaks.

For a moment I wish the freaks had followed me home. I wish they’d come up the stairs, entered Cindy’s pristine hall, and I wish Cindy had seen them here, about to enter my apartment.

She would really love myfriendsthen.

“I’ll apologize to Drew,” I say, and smile, a kind smile, the one I’d give Drew if he were here, and Cindy’s mouth tightens.

“I don’t want to be a jerk,” Cindy says.

“I know.” I smile more kindly. “It’s so not you.” And hitching my basket higher on my hip, I go into my apartment and gently, firmly close the door.

*

Monday morning, newweek, which means the Leather & Lace Ball is now only five weeks away.

In our loft office, Tessa looks calm, and her staff is working intently while we have a loose, loud team meeting in Olivia’s office—with her door open.

Olivia has brought in a tray of raspberry and lemon sugar scones, along with our favorite Starbucks coffee drinks. “To thank my team for their excellence and dedication,” she says, passing out the coffees and lifting her chai in a friendly little toast.

I feel a prick of guilt, and it’s all I can do not to look at Josh. What’s he thinking right now? Does he feel any of my disloyalty? But my guilt is cut short by Olivia’s shift to the morning’s agenda.

The Schlessenger wedding’s back on track.

The Beckett School anniversary is moving ahead.

Olivia’s been asked to put together a proposal for a big shindig to thank Oracle’s major investors.