The Good Chase by Hanna Martine

serious?”
    â€œYou’re the only one sober, so you’ll have to drive us back.”
    â€œShit.” Hands on his hips, he drew a deep breath and exhaled up toward the canopy of trees that hid the stars. “Shit, shit, shit.”
    He gave Shea a look of silent apology. She’d stopped poking the fire and was now watching him in a way that clearly said he wouldn’t get to be with her that night. So he asked for another.
    â€œWhen we get back to the city,” he said, dropping his voice, “can I see you?”
    Her eyes flicked over his shoulder toward Dan.
    â€œI know you stretched your rules for me here; would you consider doing the same back home?”
    â€œNot near the Amber,” she said. “That’s one rule I won’t break.”
    â€œNew Jersey, if we have to,” he added.
    â€œMaybe,” she replied.
    And that was good enough for him.

Chapter

    5
    T he elevator door slid open on the fifteenth floor of the sixties-era apartment building on the Upper East Side. Shea stepped into a small marble foyer decorated with ornate wall sconces and bursting with massive fresh flower arrangements.
    This had been Marco’s neighborhood. They’d lived together only two long blocks to the east. Briefly Shea wondered if it was Bespoke Byrne’s neighborhood, too, but then the door to the penthouse yawned open and she was face-to-face with a short, curvy, mature woman who’d been tucked into a sparkling red evening gown.
    The woman looked confused at the sight of Shea, standing alone in the foyer, dressed in a ladies’ tuxedo.
    â€œHi, I’m Shea Montgomery. Mr. Yellin hired me to man the whiskey bar tonight?”
    â€œOh. That would be my husband. Come in, come in.”
    Shea followed Mrs. Yellin into one of the more opulent New York City apartments she’d ever been in—and back when she’d been with Marco, she’d seen a lot.
    â€œIsaac can’t stop talking about the Amber,” Mrs. Yellin threw over her shoulder as her low heels clicked down the shiny wood hallway that seemed to stretch all the way to the Hudson. “Whenever I can’t find him, or whenever he’s been out too late, I know where he is. Or has been. I should put your hostess on speed dial.”
    â€œHe’s definitely a loyal customer. And a very nice man,” Shea added, unsure if it was the correct thing to say. This whole being-hired-to-do-a-private-party thing was entirely new to her.
    When Isaac Yellin, an Amber regular and payer of astronomically high bar tabs, had approached her months ago to do this, she’d balked. The offer was surprising enough, which was what had first given her pause. Then Mr. Yellin had named his price, and she’d been shocked into silence, which he mistook for reluctance.
    Then he doubled his offer. And gave her carte blanche to choose the whiskey for the evening, as long as it was rare and expensive.
    It wasn’t hard to say yes after that.
    The payment for her appearance fee had come through that afternoon, and she’d transferred it directly into her personal “distillery fund.” The sight of all those numbers made her a little giddy, and she had to temper her excitement. There was still a long way to go before she could go after what she wanted.
    Having to deal with Yellin’s kind of crowd outside of the Amber for one night was a small price to pay.
    The hallway emptied into a spectacular room overlooking Central Park. The masculine furniture had been clustered for perfect pockets of conversation, every seat with a view outdoors. A string quartet warmed up in the back corner. The caterers hurried about, fidgeting with mounds of hors d’oeuvres and spot-checking silverware and wineglasses. A party planner holding a tablet computer raced around, looking like one more cup of coffee might send her to the asylum.
    â€œYou’ll be in here.” Mrs. Yellin flicked a red-nailed hand