Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,9

arm in a red dress with a plummeting neckline. Vitriol emanating from the fans as they see me connected to this man who only has eyes for me.

Control yourself, Quinn.

“What kind of entertainment?” I ask, leaning toward Henry, my interest piqued.

He reaches up and scratches the back of his neck. He lets out a sigh. “Well, see, it’s all a bit under the radar right now.” His smile is a grimace.

“Are you famous?” The words fall out of my mouth like a word vomit waterfall.

“No,” he says. “Not famous.”

I feel a mixture of relief and disappointment at this info.

“I’m still in the interviewing stages, and it’s . . . er . . . it’s not meant to be known.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding my head in understanding. “Contracts?”

“Yeah.” His tone of surprise and the instantaneous furrow of his brow alert me to my faux pas. Why would a person who restores furniture know anything about entertainment contracts?

But I know those kinds of contracts in and out, and I know how important it is to keep them secret until word gets out. I replaced a well-loved reporter who was retiring at the station when I first got hired. I wasn’t even allowed to tell my friends exactly where I was going until the station made the announcement. I mean, I still did, but I wasn’t supposed to.

“I have a cousin in the business,” I say, the lie rolling off my tongue like an eighth grader trying to work her way into the popular crowd. I’ve always been good at coming up with half-truths and lies on the fly, but it’s not something I brag about. It does come in handy in situations like this, though.

“Ah,” he says, and a look of camaraderie crosses his face. I think he appreciates that I understand him. Or rather, my cousin does. Gah.

Yes sir, we may have a lot more in common than you think.

“Is it Disney? Universal?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head.

There are so many options, but one hangs on my tongue, and even as I try to swallow it back, it can’t be held in. “Television?” I squeak out.

His eyebrows pop up. “Perhaps.”

“News?” I wrap my hand around my wineglass, trying to steady myself, but then realize the anticipation filling me as I await his answer has my grip tightening around the bowl of the glass so hard I might crush it. I let go quickly and place my hands in my lap.

Henry’s lips pull downward. “Definitely not.”

There’s a lot I could read into that answer. His tone, his frown. I don’t really know Henry, but there was definitely a note of distaste in those two words.

I’m suddenly glad I only told him about the furniture thing.

It would appear that Henry doesn’t like the news. That’s cool. Totally cool. Maybe I’ll wait until date number three to tell him the truth. If there is a date number three.

Henry runs a hand through his hair. “Do you have any siblings?”

Okay. Cue taken. We’re changing the subject. I’m totally on board with this.

“Yep, a sister. She’s three years younger than me. You?”

“Same. Just a sister. Maggie. She’s two years older than me, though. She’s back in London. Married, two kids.”

“You’re an uncle.”

“I am,” he says, and there’s a twinkle of pride in those blue eyes, and I may have spontaneously gotten pregnant. Just now.

The sound of glass crashing on the ground halts our conversation, and all eyes turn to the bar, where a red-faced bartender waves awkwardly, taking ownership of the mishap.

“Parents?” I ask, bringing Henry’s attention back to me.

Henry lifts one brow, then lets it drop. “Orphan.”

“Shut up,” I say after an initial moment of what-have-I-asked washes over me at the look on his face. The quick upturn of his lips lets me know he’s teasing. “You know what I mean. Are they still married? Divorced?”

“My mum and dad are still together,” he says. “Yours?”

“We’re an anomaly.”

“An anomaly?”

“My parents are still together as well.” Although I’m not sure what’s kept them together. They’re so different. But opposites attract and all that.

Henry holds up his drink toward me. “To not being a statistic.” I grab my glass by the stem and clink it with his.

The conversation moves back to the weather. With other people I’m trying to get to know, I’d think of that as a red flag—talking about the heat and humidity around here. It’s so . . . boring. In fact, Boring Brady and I talk about the weather a lot. But it’s not