“What?” Rikker sputtered. “That’s impossible.”
Lianne shook her head. “I finished kindergarten in a regular school. After that, my mother dragged me to whichever continent she thought would amuse her most. I had private tutors. And then I worked all the way through high school. The only people I saw every day wore capes.”
“Wow. I thought my high school years were fucked,” Rikker muttered.
Lianne waved a hand, as if brushing the whole conversation aside. “Thanks for sending us the pictures, Graham,” she said.
He grinned. “You were in on it, too?”
“She was my partner in crime,” I said. “The models were her idea.”
“And the sweatshirts,” she added.
“The cleavage,” I agreed.
“Remind me never to piss you two off,” Rikker said. “Can I tell the team that you’re my new idol?”
“I wish,” I said. “But please don’t. I have to be careful.”
Graham’s face got serious. “Shit, you’re right.” He tapped my hand. “There’s your hot neighbor.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rafe remove a couple of pans from the salad bar. How anyone could look that good doing kitchen work was really a mystery.
“He stood guard today,” Lianne said. “I saw him.”
“Did he now?” Rikker asked, smiling at me.
“Yep,” Lianne said even as I kicked her under the table. “He’d like to help Bella with some other things, too. But she turned him down.”
“Lianne,” I warned. “What do you care?”
“Because,” she said, with a toss of her shiny hair. “The tension is killing me. You two look at each other like you wished clothing was never invented. When we’re all in the same room, I feel like I’m intruding.”
“Well you’re not,” I insisted.
“Uh-huh.” Lianne stabbed an olive on her plate.
“New topic,” I suggested. “What is your newspaper article going to say?”
Graham chuckled. “Let’s see. We lost the game, because our quarterback threw three interceptions. Also, two hundred Beta Rho brothers proclaimed themselves to be idiots. And nobody argued.”
“I dare you to write that, babe,” Rikker said.
“Oh, I’m going to. I need a good headline, though. ‘Frat Gets Bitchslapped’ probably won’t make it past the editorial board.”
“That’s missing the point, anyway,” I argued. “‘Frat Bitchslaps Itself While Ogling Models’ Boobs.’ Nobody made them do it.”
“True, but that’s too many characters for the headline typeface,” Graham said. “I’ll think of something, though.”
“I’m sure you will.” I cut a meatball with my fork. “Hey, Lianne? I signed for a FedEx package for you yesterday. I forgot to tell you, but I left it in the bathroom so that you’d see it.”
“Cool. It’s a script.”
“Yeah? A new film?”
She shook her head. “A play. Romeo and Juliet. Isn’t it funny that they FedExed me a copy for Saturday delivery? As if I couldn’t find a copy in Harkness, Connecticut.”
“You’re playing Juliet? Do you have to stab yourself in the heart with a dagger?”
“Yep!” She jabbed her salad with glee. “That’s the best part.”
“Can I watch? When is this happening?”
“Over Christmas. And you can watch, because it’s at the Public Theater.”
I dropped my napkin. “You’re doing Juliet at the Public Theater? You are fancy.”
“It’s a good gig,” she admitted. “I’m doing it because there’s a part I want in a new film adaptation of Shakespeare. But it sure kills Christmas break. I’ll have ten days of rehearsal and then fifteen performances.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. It’ll be a grind. But, hey! New and different take-out foods.”
“And New York,” Rikker offered. “You can’t beat that.”
She shrugged again. “New York is fine. But I’m not looking forward to staying in a hotel for three weeks.”
“Why not?” Graham asked. “Sounds like easy living.”
My neighbor looked uncomfortable. “It’s not enough privacy. My manager is, like, Hitler. And he can just walk through the front door anytime he wants.”
Her manager must be a serious piece of work She almost sounded afraid of him. “Lianne? Do you need a place to stay? I have a guest room. You’d have to share a bathroom with me. It would be just like we have it now.”