Page 39 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

There's tons of food around me, all in reach, but I don't touch it. Not out of some sense of decorum because guests aren't here yet, no. I'm worried if I put a bite in my mouth, I'll vomit it back up.

I look at the window in time to see my mother's car pull into the driveway. She parks next to mine. Seeing her perks me up, though I'm terrified to have her watch me play pretend at this party. Jordan isn't convinced I'm in love with Dezmond. My mom isn't either, but thanks to some misguided desire to support me blindly, she's been acting over-the-top delighted about the engagement.

As I go to meet her at the front door, a thought crosses my mind.

How many liars can you pack into one room before the truth starts to leak through?

Chapter 15

Dezmonddidn'tinvitetwentypeople. He invited forty.

The obvious faces are here: Jake—who has to be told not to bring his cigarette inside the house—as well as the other two members of Dez's crew who robbed me. Baldy, who introduces himself as Gunner, is dressed in a checkered polo that barely fits over his wide neck. His look-a-like with short blonde hair, Seth, is in plain blue jeans and an ivory tee. At least it's clean.

From there it gets weird. I swear Dezmond walked into the gambling den and invited everyone who happened to be there, then he must have strolled to the Drip Head bar and done the same. I vaguely recognize some of the guys—tattoos and varying scars are helpful.

Not everyone is a local drunk, though. I identify kids from our high school days. It's only been four years, but I struggle to name them all. In contrast, every person calls my name, walks up to where I stand numbly clutching my glass of champagne, then loudly proclaims howhappythey are for me.

Dezmond bellows laughter from the middle of a group of people across the room. It doesn't matter what was said, he'd laugh anyway to prove he got the joke. He's switched out the clothes he woke up in for tan pants and a long-sleeve button-down shirt in a rich shade of cobalt blue. It looks good on him, but I feel a wave of pride because I was right; he doesn't compare to his dad. Not at all.

The one upside to this loud, packed party, is being able to avoid Jordan. People crowd him, complimenting his house, asking how he's doing, gushing over how nice it is to see Dezmond finally making a decent life choice. He's so busy handling everyone that he can't bother me.

I watch him from across the room. He's standing near the staircase, I'm in the open-concept kitchen beside the counter. Jordan is listening to something an older Latina woman is telling him. She's Buzzy's wife, Julia. Whatever she's saying she's emphasizing it with twirls of her half-full glass. I've always liked her—when I was little, she'd give me an extra cookie when my parents stopped in the cafe for a weekend mid-day coffee on the way to the beach.

Jordan has a half-smile on, nodding every now and then. He's being polite. But I see what he's doing between sips of his champagne and his head-bobs. Once, every few seconds, he lifts his eyes to scan the house.He's looking for me.

“Lori?” Mom asks as she moves beside me.

I tear my eyes away from Jordan. “Hm?”

“Are you having a good time?”

“Oh, yeah, super great.” I twist my drink in my fingers with a smile. “How about you? Like the house? There's an awesome view of the ocean on the drive up.”

“I saw. It's very beautiful.” Her smile doesn't reach her eyes; she glances over at Dezmond. He's laughing so fuckingloud.“He seems easier to get along with when he's around his friends.”

I purse my lips. “Mmhm.”

“And his father …”

My heart speeds up.

“He's doing such a nice thing, paying for this whole party.”

Closing my eyes, I breathe out some of my nerves. “It's generous for sure.”

“Oh, he's coming this way,” she says. I snap my eyes open to see it's true. Jordan is pushing through the crowd towards us. I strangle the stem of my glass tighter and tighter as he gets closer with every step. By the time he's next to me behind the counter, my hand is cramping.

“You must be Mrs. Jones,” he says to my mother. He smiles kindly, holding up his glass to hers.

She lights up, tapping it. “Just call me Iris.”

“You're named after a flower? How fitting, since you grow such lovely ones,” he chuckles. “I'm Jordan Hartford, Dezmond's father.”

“She knows who you are,” I say in a flat affect.

He shoots me a hard look. My butterflies swarm in response. My mom laughs kindly, sipping her drink, saying, “Your house is gorgeous. I didn't even know it was up here. When I was a child, this area was where we'd go hiking.”

“It wasn't here back then,” he replies.

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