Marrying Up by Jackie Rose Page B

mean, hey—I’m only flesh and blood! I’m definitely hoping to live happily every after when all’s said and done here.”
    The more I explain it, the better it sounds. I would be free from a senseless job, perhaps even madly in love, artistically productive and obscenely wealthy—at first by association, but then, as the critically acclaimed author of a runaway bestseller, by my own merits.
    Before I can prove to George why it’s in her best interest to be my partner every step of the way, a waitress interrupts. “Excuse me, ladies. Those gentlemen over there thought you might like these.” She plops two fruity-looking concoctions down on the table in front of us.
    A couple of middle-aged suits a few booths over raise their martini glasses and smile. One of them has badly crooked teeth and neither has much hair to speak of.
    “I… I… I don’t think so,” George stammers. I can’t tell if it’s the calorie count or our shiny-skulled suitors that has her spooked.
    “Oh, come on,” I say. “It’s just one drink. They seem okay. Don’t they seem okay?” I ask the waitress.
    She shrugs. “They’re in here an awful lot, so they’re either single, unhappily married or alcoholics.”
    “Umm…yeah…well, thanks for clearing that up for us. Would you please just ask them if they’d like to join us?” She takes off for their table, shaking her head.
    “Don’t say a word, G. This is just a trial run. And I think this place has just the right demographics, so let’s put our husband-catching hats on, just for fun, and—”
    “Our whats ? And did you just say we? So now it’s we? I don’t think—”
    They slide in beside us before she has a chance to object any further.
    “Hi guys! Thanks for the drinks,” I say to the better-looking one sitting next to George.
    “Yeah, thanks,” she grumbles.
    “You’re welcome,” he say. “I’m Trevor. And this is Ron.”
    “Hi,” says Ron.
    “I’m Holly, and this is George.”
    George half smiles and looks down.
    “George?” Trevor says. “Bit of a funny name for a pretty lady like you, isn’t it?”
    “Maybe that’s, you know, like her work name or something,” Ron says to Trevor out of the side of his mouth.
    “Her work name. I get it,” he nods.
    George and I exchange glances. Who knows? Maybe they’re into names or something. “Well, even though I’m a Holly, I wasn’t born in December or named after Christmas or anything silly like that, though people often assume that I am. I guess my parents just thought it was a nice name, you know?”
    But Ron and Trevor just stare at George as she proceeds to deskewer her sword of maraschino cherries with her teeth.
    “Yeah, that’ll do it,” Ron says. “That’ll do it.”
    Trevor apparently agrees. “Let’s get to it, then! I assume you ladies are working tonight?”
    “Huh?” I am utterly confused.
    For a change, George is not. “They think we’re hookers, Holly.”
    The burgundy leather banquette squeaks as the offending parties shift uncomfortably.
    “What?! Are you joking?” Three drinks have not dulled my capacity for righteous indignation.
    “Wait! It’s okay if you’re not!” Ron suggests frantically.
    “Yeah, that’s totally fine, too. We just thought—”
    “You just thought what?!”
    “Holly, let’s get out of here…”
    “No, G! I want to know why they would think we’re hookers!”
    “Maybe it’s her hair,” Ron points at George. “And her…her…wow. Those right there. And your lipstick! I don’t think bright red is the way to go at happy hour.”
    Trevor shoots him a nervous look. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “My sister works for Avon,” he explains.
    “Man, you’re so queer…”
    “You can go now,” I tell them.
    I whip my compact out of my purse while George slumps down as far as she can without completely disappearing under the table. True, I am a little more made-up than usual, but I figured the occasion called for a touch