Page 12 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
Except I don't know where to find her. She could be anywhere in the plaza or in the city. Could be a pop-up that's already moved on. Could be?—
My jacket.
The leather one I wore Saturday night is still draped over the back of my chair where I'd tossed it Monday morning, too tired to hang it properly. I'd been planning to return it to Colum's brother all week but kept forgetting.
I search the pockets.
Left side: empty. Right side: a crumpled receipt for the drink I'd bought her at the party. Whiskey sour, extra cherry. The bartender had written "RIDGE" at the top with a smiley face because apparently everyone at that party thought my fake persona was charming.
Inside pocket: nothing.
I move to the pants I wore. They're hanging in the small closet I keep for emergency outfit changes, Colum's insisted on it ever since I spilled an entire pot of coffee on myself before an investor presentation.
Left pocket: lint and a button that came off the shirt I wore under the jacket.
Right pocket: more lint, a quarter, and?—
My fingers catch on something soft. Paper. Small.
I pull it out carefully.
It's a cocktail napkin. Tiny, square, the kind they give you at bars with overpriced drinks and underpaid servers. White, or it was white before someone, beforeshepressed a kiss to it.
The lipstick stain is perfect. A full print of her lips, slightly parted, in that bright red shade she'd been wearing. Around it, like some sort of cosmetic crime scene, glitter catches the overhead fluorescent light. Gold, mostly, with flecks of copper and something that shimmers pink.
I turn it over.
Nothing. No number, no message, no name.
Just a kiss and glitter that's already transferring to my fingers.
Great.
I sit down hard in my chair, napkin balanced on my palm like it might disintegrate if I breathe wrong.
She'd been drinking the whiskey sour, laughing at something I said, something Ridge said, actually, some joke about Colum's tendency to turn every gathering into a TED talk. She'd leaned close, her shoulder brushing mine, and pulled a napkin from the stack on the bar.
"For luck," she'd said, pressing her lips to it deliberately, eyes locked on mine. Then she'd tucked it into my jacket pocket with a grin that promised trouble.
I'd forgotten entirely until now.
Sis.
Except that's not a name. That's a nickname. A placeholder. The kind of thing you say when you don't want someone looking you up on social media before the night's over.
I'd done the same thing. Ridge instead of Gunther. Mystery instead of truth.
And now I'm holding a napkin covered in glitter and regret.
Twenty minutes later,I'm at my computer with a browser open and the napkin carefully placed on a clean sheet of printer paper to contain the glitter fallout.
Cosmetic stores in this area.
I start there. Type it into the search bar and watch the results populate.
Four hundred thousand hits. Apparently "sparkle", "glitter", and "beauty" are extremely common words in the cosmetics industry. Who knew.
I narrow it down. Add "Poplar Springs" to the search.
