Page 59 of The Groupie

Waiting is overrated and time wasted. That’s what I think after waiting two days to hear back from Rylee. I texted her again, and she finally responded to tell me to have fun tonight. Shit.

Tonight, I need to deal with this Bachelor of the Year business and waste more time on the Rylee clock.

“This place looks fancy,” Sheila says. I help her from my SUV and hand the keys to the valet as we head inside Buttermilk & Bourbon while the snow falls. No one’s outside in the weather wielding phones or other cameras, which suits me fine.

The reprieve is short-lived. Inside the place, no less than three cameras wait for us—and those are the official ones. I don’t know how many diners have their cell phones raised to record the commotion, but Candice and Delaney scored a hat trick of publicity with media presence, a big crowd, and glamour as Sheila takes off her coat to show her shine. Her dress may be short, but it’s covered in sparkly sequins, and her spike heels make her legs over-the-top long and more than sexy. I let out an appreciative low whistle. Loud enough to make her smile, discrete enough not to make a spectacle. My usual M.O.

“You both look wonderful,” Candice says. She’s standing next to the blue-haired chef-owner, and we’re introduced and then shown to our table.

“This place is spectacular,” Sheila says as we sit.

“It’s not the place; it’s the people in it who make it special,” I say, meaning it.

She gets giddy on me.

“I hear the food is good, too,” I say, lifting my menu. From the corner of my eye, I see the cameras move in and Candice, sitting with PR at a nearby table, urging me to get close to Sheila if I’m reading her hand signals correctly.

“I think they want us to kiss,” I say under my breath.

Sheila looks up from her menu. “Who?”

“Didn’t you notice all the cameras aimed at us?”

She puts her menu down and glances around the room, her eyes getting wider and wider. “Shit. Maybe I ought to rethink my meal choice. I was going for the fried chicken, but no way I can eat with my hands with all the attention.”

I laugh. “Whatever you do is fine with me, Sheila. You’re a good sport for going along with this fiasco.”

“You know me. I was never one to turn down a good meal.”

“Yeah. I have noticed you enjoy your food. Beat Finn in a burger eating contest that time last year at the Tea Party.”

“In his defense, he’d had too much to drink.”

“You sure that’s a defense?”

She laughs, and I could almost put aside the fiasco and chalk it up to part of the job when I see a woman walk through the door, and the feeling of déjà vu assaults me and knocks me over—metaphorically speaking.

Rylee walks in, wearing the same outfit she did the first night I saw her—which seems longer ago than ten days. I watch her negotiate with the hostess and realize she’s not wearing her ball cap. She knew there’d be press here tonight, and I wonder why the hell she’s taking such a risk. If they recognize her, they’ll wonder what she’s doing here instead of Park City.

The hostess nods and takes her to a table near ours, close enough so I can hear them talk. Close enough so she’s noticed and turning heads. But, of course she is because she’s fucking gorgeous.

She’s not on her crutches, and she’s not limping.

The crowd settles down, and the cameras filming us from three different angles blend into the background. I have half an eye and ear on Rylee, and Sheila keeps looking in her direction.

“It feels weird not to say hello to Rylee. You sure it would be a problem?”

“Yes. The cameras are following your every move. They followed you all the way to the ladies’ room a minute ago.”

“Damn.” She grins. But over her head, I spot a familiar face walking past us, and I’m not happy to see him.

“Jonesy, what are you doing here?” I stop him.

“Same as everyone else. Spying on the Bachelor of the Year on his dinner date. I’d ask you for a brief interview, but Candice said she has an exclusive.”

I nod.

“But she doesn’t have an exclusive with Rylee Flynn,” he says and sits down at Rylee’s table opposite her without asking. Fuck.