Chapter 3: In Which Cocktails Are Consumed and Secrets Nearly Slip

The bar across the street from the office was just loud enough to discourage productive conversation and just dark enough to forgive questionable choices. Which was exactly why Lillian liked it.

She slid into a booth, kicked off her heels under the table, and sighed like she’d just escaped a war zone. “If I get alcohol poisoning tonight, I want my tombstone to read: She died doing what she loved. Avoiding Oliver Hollingsworth.”

Jane, already two sips into her dirty martini, snorted. “Oh, come on. He can’t be that bad.”

Lillian gave her a look so deadpan it should’ve come with a warning label. “Jane. He annotated my editorial notes. With comments. In red.”

“Oh my god,” Jane gasped, hand to heart. “Did he also kick a puppy and insult your mother?”

“He called Persuasion ‘Jane Austen’s sleepiest novel.’”

Jane gasped louder.

“Thank you.”

Their drinks arrived like divine intervention. Lillian took a long sip, leaned back, and let the gin do its sacred work.

A pair of men hovered near their booth—one with charming dimples, the other with the haircut of someone who still unironically quoted Fight Club. Jane, never one to miss a flirtation opportunity, flashed them a smile that said I’m open to conversation, but I will eat you alive if you’re boring.

It took five minutes of chitchat to confirm: they were mostly boring, but pretty. Jane carried the conversation like the social athlete she was. Lillian smiled, nodded, and drank.

When the guys wandered off in search of greener, less sarcastic pastures, Jane turned back, resting her chin in her palm. “Okay, back to the hot stuff. You and Oliver. Assigned to work together. Alone. Regular meetings. Tension. Snark. Long glances. Slow realization that maybe—just maybe—you’ve misjudged him…”

“No,” Lillian said firmly. “This isn’t a Nora Ephron movie. He’s not a misunderstood romantic. He’s a walking ego in well-tailored pants.”

“Do you know what kind of delusion you have to be under to say ‘well-tailored pants’ about a man you allegedly hate?”

Lillian ignored her. “It’s going to be strictly professional. We’ll get the manuscript done, and I will emotionally disassociate the entire time.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“Also, I’m pretty sure his cologne is laced with condescension.”

Jane raised a brow. “And yet, you noticed his cologne.”

“I have a nose, Jane. It works. Unfortunately.”

They both laughed, and for a while, they let the conversation drift. Music thudded low and slow around them, lights casting a soft glow over their booth. Lillian swirled the last of her drink and looked off into the room—eyes unfocused, thoughts annoyingly focused.

She excused herself to the restroom, navigating the dim hallway near the back of the bar. As she rounded a corner, she collided with someone—a tall, model-esque woman with a sleek ponytail and cheekbones sharp enough to file legal briefs.

“Oh—sorry!” Lillian said quickly.

The woman barely flinched. She looked Lillian up and down with the detached air of someone mentally calculating fabric blend and retail price, then stepped aside without a word.

Inside the restroom, Lillian took a quick glance in the mirror. Lipstick: holding. Hair: decent. Dignity: bruised, but salvageable. She rolled her eyes at her reflection and headed back out.

That’s when she saw him.

Oliver.

Leaning against a high-top near the bar, sleeves rolled to the elbows, nursing what looked like whiskey with that casually dangerous air he’d probably perfected in private school detention.

Alone, for a split second.

Then the model woman reappeared and slid her arm through his like she’d paid rent to be there.

Lillian stopped.

Claudia—if that was her name—rested a hand lightly on Oliver’s forearm, fingers lingering. Intimate. Possessive. Maybe it was his girlfriend. Or a date. Or just someone who was way too comfortable being that close to him.

And then he smiled.

Not the smirk. Not the smug. A real smile. Wide and warm and completely inappropriate for someone who’d told her to “reconsider her phrasing” in an email.

Unfortunately, it looked good on him. Devastating, even.

Standing beside them was another man—tall, broad-shouldered, reddish-brown hair, with a relaxed swagger that practically shouted “I’m the fun one.” Chaz, probably. Oliver’s best friend.

Lillian turned back to her booth, where Jane was sipping her martini and scrolling through something with an expression that said she was three sips away from texting her ex just to mess with him.

Jane glanced up. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” Lillian replied, sliding into her seat.

Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Isn’t that…?”

Lillian didn’t look. “Yes.”

“And that’s him?”

“Yes.”

“And who is she?”

Lillian sighed. “No idea.”

“She’s leaning into him like they share a Netflix password.”

“I said I don’t know.”

Jane gave her a long, knowing look.

Their two former flirts had clearly taken the hint and vanished, their spots now open for fresh applicants. Not that either of them noticed right away.

Back at the bar, Chaz leaned toward Oliver, whispering something with a smirk. Oliver didn’t react. Claudia, on the other hand, made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a judgmental cough.

A moment later, Chaz approached the table.

He came with confidence, charm, and the grin of a man who considered himself a connoisseur of women’s attention.

“Ladies,” he said smoothly. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Only if you plan to talk about cryptocurrency,” Jane said, offering her hand.

He laughed. “Not tonight. I’m Chaz.”

“Jane,” she said, matching his energy. “And this is Lillian.”

Chaz nodded at both of them. “Saw you looking our way. Thought I’d come say hi before Claudia gave me a lecture on being ‘too available.’”

“Who’s Claudia?” Jane asked, eyebrows up.

“My younger sister,” he said, grinning. “Tall, judgmental, and very bad at sharing attention.”

Lillian blinked. “Wait—that’s your sister?”

“Yep.”

“She glared at me in the hallway.”

“She glares at everyone. It’s like her signature.”

Conversation flowed easily after that, Chaz’s charm doing most of the lifting. Before he returned to his table, he slipped Jane a sleek business card.

“In case you ever want to continue this in a less noisy setting,” he said with a wink.

“I’ll consider it,” Jane replied with a smile that could’ve powered a small city.

Chaz headed back to the high-top, all self-satisfaction and casual confidence.

Claudia was waiting. With a face like thunder and a jaw so tight it could snap steel. She said something under her breath, her gaze darting toward Lillian and Jane.

Chaz ignored her, sipping his drink and watching the girls across the bar.

Oliver stood quietly beside them, gaze still locked on Lillian. Unreadable. Unmoving. Intense.

Back at their booth, Lillian and Jane were laughing again, comfortably tipsy and radiant in the flattering glow of good lighting and casual flirtation.

A few more men approached, drawn in like bees to honey—and Oliver watched it all unfold without saying a word.

Claudia frowned.

Chaz smiled.

And Oliver… just stared.