Page 79 of The Frog Prince
Sipping our cocktails, Kirk and I stand at the window overlooking the dance floor below. Katie’s already dancing. She’s wearing one of those itty-bitty skirts, and as more people converge on the dance floor, I lose her in the crowd.
“Is Katie going to be okay?” I ask Kirk.
Kirk, who keeps his head shaved and looks remarkably like Andre Agassi, gives me a look. “Katie’s in her element. We won’t see her until they kick us out.”
I’m impressed. “Who is she dancing with?”
“Herself. She meets people on the dance floor.” He grins at my expression. “Our Katie’s not shy.”
Kirk is hailed by a couple across the room who look familiar, but I can’t place them. He heads over to talk to them, and I watch him shake hands with the guy and lean forward to kiss the girl’s cheek. They talk for a few minutes, and then Kirk returns, joining me on the velvet sofa where I’ve curled up, feeling quite cozy and content to people-watch.
“You’re not going to dance?” Kirk asks.
I don’t even recognize the song, but I don’t tell him that. “Maybe later. This is just fun being here.”
One of Kirk’s very dark eyebrows lifts. “You don’t get out much, do you?”
I laugh, lean back into the squishy velvet cushions. “Is it that obvious?”
Kirk puts his feet up on the clear Lucite coffee table. “Yes.”
I sip from my glass, hoping the cucumber cosmo has grown on me. It hasn’t. I do my best not to wrinkle my nose. It’s not strongly flavored, but I do feel as if I were out at a Thai restaurant eating a little cucumber salad.
“You’re a writer?” I ask him.
“Sort of.” He tips his head back against the cushion, and he’s got an amazing profile: strong, masculine features, defined Roman nose, square jaw, dense eyelashes. If he had hair, he’d be beautiful. “I write, but I’m not obsessed with it.”
“Are you obsessed with being a DJ?” I persist.
One of his dark eyebrows lifts. “Are you obsessed with being an event planner?”
Thank God he doesn’t take himself so seriously. “You’re not Greek, are you?”
“Do you have a problem with Greeks?”
“No. They’re gorgeous. And I love Greek food.”
“I agree. But no, I’m not Greek.” He drains his martini. “Armenian. My dad’s full. My mom’s half.”
“And your last name is Benneyan?” “No.”
“Shuklian?”
“No.”
“Ekezian. Kirkorian. Morsalian—”
“No. No. No. But you do know a lot of Armenians.”
“Central California.”
“That’s where my mom’s from. Fresno.”
I nod quite seriously. “I used to live there.”
Kirk shoots me a side glance. “Should I express my condolences?”
I nearly punch him in the arm, going so far as to make a fist and wave it in the air. “It’s not that bad,” I protest, but even my protest sounds halfhearted to me. “Why does everyone have to knock Fresno?”