“What if I tell you that the ice sculpture is just the spitting image of you? Though I think they overdid it on the biceps . . .”
Kennedy made an exaggerated show of looking around the crowded rooftop of the Knickerbocker Hotel.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Your husband. I don’t want him to see me pushing you off the roof.”
Sabrina laughed and linked a slender arm with his, lifting her other hand to take a sip of her champagne. “Let’s just stand here for a minute and pretend we’re in a riveting conversation so that we don’t have to make small talk.”
“You’re good at small talk.”
“I am,” she agreed. “You’re not, unless it’s one of your clients. Most of whom are in attendance, I noticed.”
“I think half of Manhattan’s in attendance,” Kennedy said, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
“There’s the birthday spirit,” she said sarcastically.
He looked down at her dark head. “Thanks for coming.”
A smile played on her lips. “Better.”
She looked up, presenting Kennedy with one of the more objectively beautiful faces he’d ever seen. More important, he actually liked Sabrina and always had. She was a longtime friend of Ian’s, their friendship dating back to their rougher days in Philly, before they’d reconnected in Manhattan at the top of their games—he as a BSD of Wall Street, she as New York City’s most notorious and sought-after fixer, a woman who could make just about any problem go away. For a price.
But stunning as the woman was, and as much as he enjoyed her company, there’d never been even a spark of anything resembling chemistry between them. Probably because all of the chemistry in the room—any room—had been consumed by Matt and Sabrina until they’d finally given in to the inevitable and hooked up last year, giving everyone in their orbit relief from observational blue balls.
Sabrina had married Matt this past New Year’s Eve, and though she had opted not to take his name (something about the Sabrina Cross brand being legendary), she’d taken Matt’s heart full stop and given hers right back. It was sort of nice to see, albeit in a slightly nauseating way.
Sabrina lifted her champagne flute to get someone’s attention, and a moment later, Matt joined them, carrying two Manhattans, one of which he placed in Kennedy’s hand. “Thought you might need this.”
“Why’s that?” Kennedy said, taking a sip of the whiskey cocktail.
“Because you’re lurking in the corner of the room at your own party with someone else’s wife.”
“Oh, but we were in riveting conversation,” Sabrina said. “Did it not look riveting?”
“You looked like you wanted to rip my clothes off, and Kennedy looked like he wanted to throw himself backward over the ledge.”
“Actually, he was going to push me over the ledge,” Sabrina said.
Matt nodded. “I could see that.” He gave Kennedy an assessing look. “Are you going to throw me off the roof if I ask where your girlfriend is?”
“Great question,” Kennedy grumbled. “I should probably go find her.”
“She did pull out all the stops,” Matt said.
Understatement.
Kennedy looked around at his over-the-top surroundings, seeing a bit more clearly now that the irritation—surprise, he meant surprise—of the unexpected party had faded slightly. He supposed he should have seen it coming. Claudia had been jumpy all afternoon. He’d chalked it up to nervousness over introducing her boyfriend to her parents. Had he been paying closer attention, he’d like to think he’d have seen the signs. Maybe then he’d have been at least a little prepared and managed more than an under-the-breath “Jesus” when one hundred of his closest and not-so-close friends had shouted “Surprise!” when he and Claudia had stepped off the elevator into the St. Cloud bar.
He appreciated the effort. He did. It was just that the Dawsons usually treated birthdays with a quiet, dignified nod to the coming year. A special dinner when they were kids. A nice bottle of scotch when they’d hit drinking age. He thought everyone in his inner circle knew he liked quiet birthdays.
He didn’t mind getting older, but he sure as hell didn’t want to celebrate another year with ice sculptures and cocktail servers and . . .
“Are those oysters?” Kennedy asked, finally noticing the elaborate raw bar set up to his left.
“Your favorite,” Ian said, clamping him on the shoulder as he and Lara joined them. “Maybe you’ll die.”
Kennedy ignored his friend and bent to kiss the cheek of Ian’s better half.
“Happy birthday, old man,” Lara said, squeezing his hand.
“Why do people keep calling me that? I think I liked you better when you were an SEC agent out to put Ian in jail. At least then you were polite to me.”
“Actually, it’s a good thing when she’s rude to you,” Ian said. “She’s unfailingly polite to people she doesn’t really like.”
“That isn’t true!” Lara protested, adjusting her glasses and glaring at Ian.
Ian pointed his Negroni—a bitter red cocktail that was his trademark drink of choice—in the direction of the partygoers. “Really? I think you nearly knocked over Claudia’s parents just now with your eyelash fluttering.”
“Okay, well, they were snobby,” Lara said. “No offense, Kennedy.”
“None taken.” Claudia hadn’t been entirely lying about the night involving him meeting her parents. The Palmers were at the party, and Lara was right—they were snobby. Granted, his parents could be labeled as such, too. But his parents had a cool, sort of reserved snobbery that thawed once you got to know them. The Palmers were openly snobby. The sort of name-dropping, gossip-hungry social climbers who Kennedy hated the most.
“Oh, Kennedy.” Lara tapped his arm with the base of her wineglass. “Before I forget, if you get hungry, there’s a table on the far side of the room with little roast-beef slider things. Since, you know . . .” She waved at the shellfish bar.
Kennedy nodded, relieved. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, having expected an early dinner with Claudia’s parents. Plus, roast beef was his favorite. Bonus if there was extra-hot horseradish sauce on the side.
“Thanks,” he said. “Guess that’s what I get for not mentioning to Claudia that I’m allergic to oysters.”
“Oh, she knew,” Sabrina replied, the slightest edge in her tone.
“No, I don’t think I ever mentioned it to her,” Kennedy said, feeling the need to defend his girlfriend. “It’s obnoxious when people unnecessarily announce allergies, like those people who essentially introduce themselves as gluten intolerant, as though anyone needs to know that. Just don’t order the damn thing.”
“Oh no, she definitely knew,” Lara said, backing up Sabrina. “Kate told her.”
“Why would Kate and Claudia—” Kennedy broke off as he put the pieces together. “That’s why Claudia’s been in the office the past couple weeks.”
“Took you long enough,” Matt said into his drink.
“What did you think she and Kate were doing in the conference room all of those times?” Ian asked. “We thought for sure you’d figure it out.”