Chapter 11
Amanda let herself be pulled along, heart pounding, wondering if Angela could feel the shift between them as clearly as she did. She told herself it was just the wine, the music, the rush of being seen and wanted and pulled into someone else’s orbit so easily.
Back at their table, Angela flopped into her chair with a dramatic sigh, waving down a server for another round. Amanda slid into the booth across from her, hands smoothing down the front of her dress, trying to slow her breathing.
Angela grinned at her, bright and teasing. "You almost looked like you were having fun out there."
Amanda scoffed, reaching for her glass. "Almost? I was carrying you."
"Excuse me?" Angela laughed. "You’re lucky you didn’t twist your ankle trying to keep up."
Their drinks arrived before Amanda could fire back, two fresh cocktails dripping with condensation. Angela clinked her glass against Amanda’s with a mischievous look.
"To surviving your first dance floor mission," she said.
Amanda smiled, the tension in her chest easing just slightly. "To surviving you," she corrected, and they both laughed.
They drifted into easy conversation again, the wine and music blurring the edges of everything sharp and painful. Angela teased her about her "teacher voice" — "You definitely scared at least three guys into going home early" — and Amanda teased her back about her "disaster counselor charm."
She could have stayed like that all night — the two of them, spinning in their own little bubble of bad jokes and secondhand laughter.
Maybe she would have.
If it weren't for the stranger.
Amanda noticed her first—a brunette in a leather jacket lingering by the bar, tapping a manicured nail against her glass, eyes scanning the room. She was striking in an obvious way: sharp cheekbones, glossy hair, the kind of self-assured smile Amanda would have found intimidating even on a better day.
Amanda followed the stranger's gaze, watched it land squarely on Angela.
Of course.
Angela, oblivious, was busy dramatizing a story about a disastrous eighth-grade science fair she had once supervised, complete with flammable baking soda volcanos and a near call with the fire marshal.
Amanda barely heard a word of it. Her whole body felt wired, hyperaware, as the stranger grabbed her drink and sauntered across the room.
"Amanda," Angela said, elbowing her lightly. "You're zoning out. I'm pouring my soul out here."
Before Amanda could answer, a shadow fell over their table.
"Hi," said the stranger, her voice smooth and a little dangerous. "Sorry to interrupt. I just... had to come over and say, you have the best laugh I've heard all night."
Angela blinked, surprised, then smiled easily—unbothered, unflustered.
Amanda felt a sharp twist in her stomach and sat up straighter, schooling her face into something friendly and supportive.
Because that's what friends did.
Angela laughed, a little breathless. "Well, thank you. I guess I should... laugh more often?"
The stranger grinned. "Maybe I could give you a reason."
Amanda took a long sip of her drink, letting the glass shield her face for a second too long.
Angela turned to her with an almost apologetic shrug, like can you believe this? and Amanda flashed her a grin, deliberately light.
"Go for it," Amanda said, waving her hand in a mock-royal gesture. "I'll keep the table warm. And your drink safe. Probably."
Angela snorted. "Some wingwoman you are."
Amanda put a hand to her chest, feigning offense. "The best, actually. Top ten. Nationally ranked."
Angela rolled her eyes but stood anyway, slipping off her jacket and tossing it into Amanda's lap with a teasing, "Don’t steal my fries."
Amanda watched them head toward the bar, laughing at something Angela said, the stranger touching her arm lightly, casually. It was a nice touch. Flirty but not pushy.
She should have felt proud.
Supportive.
Instead, Amanda stared down at the jacket in her lap, twisting the worn denim between her fingers, her heart tight in her chest for reasons she didn’t dare name.
Angela deserved this.
Someone charming. Someone confident.
Someone who wasn't Amanda, sitting there drinking lukewarm cocktails and pretending she wasn't coming apart at the seams.
From across the room, Angela caught her eye, shot her a wink that was so easy, so familiar, that Amanda smiled before she could stop herself.
God, she was hopeless.