Page 51 of Meet Hate Love
The distinctive, leathery scent of Vance’s cologne wrapped around me, and I whipped my head around. Sure enough. There he sat, dead center in a beam of sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window. He looked like some delectable god of hate-fucks.
I bit the inside of my cheek. My internal monologue had just called him a god of hate-fucks while I sat in a church, underneath the biggest Jesus I’d ever seen, making an illegal recording. I was on a freaking roll today.
Vance swiped an anxious hand through his hair, dragging my attention to the Ava-Cato-shaped tan line on his forehead. My guess? He’d snatched the bandage off the second he’d descended into the depths of the metro and away from my sight.
“What are you doing in Montmartre?” I asked. “Your itinerary said you would leave at five.” And one thing I had been certain of was him following that damned thing to a T. Then again, maybe his phone had died, and he’d forgotten how to function without the call of his timers.
“I—” His brows furrowed. “Wait. You’re actively trying to avoid me?”
I was. Just like I was actively trying not to look at his lips. “No. I just…” The choir fell silent, and I stopped the recording. Screw it. Why should I lie? “Fine. Yes, I was. Because I could have gone my entire life without knowing you have really soft lips that taste like vanilla mint.”
A slight smirk worked over his face. Yep. Whatever the pull was between us needed to be ignored. Mosaic Jesus only knew how cocky Vance would get if things went any further—smirking about a kiss.
A loud click of heels echoed through the silent space and that sexy smirk of his fell like a drunk man falling down stairs.
“We’ll talk about why you should know my lips taste like vanilla mint later, but right now—” He glanced over his shoulder, mumbled, “Fuck,” then turned back to me. “I need you to pretend you’re my girlfriend.”
Dumb, heartbreak-jonesing butterflies erupted in my chest. The man had reduced me to a twelve-year-old girl. “What? No!” I scooted away from him, forcing a frown. “Why would I do that?”
He glanced over his shoulder again, then ducked down in the pew. “Because there’s a girl,” he whispered.
I felt my brow lift. That was how all bad things in a romantic comedy movie started. There was a girl, and she was usually—
“And she’s insane.” There it was. The second part of the plot I knew all too well. “And she won’t leave me alone.”
The quickening tap of heels grew louder. “She’s insane and won’t leave you alone.” The wooden pew creaked when I shifted a little farther away from him. “And I would want to get roped into that shitshow because?”
The pew shook when a blond dressed in head-to-toe bubble gum pink took a seat at the end of the row. She slid across, nuzzling right up to Vance, and my make-believe girlfriend jealousy swelled as his pleading eyes widened.
I leaned forward, glancing at the girl who, to be fair, looked unstable as hell. She had one of those Barbie doll-esque perma-smiles, chompers so white they made my own teeth hurt at the thought of how much bleach she’d had to use.
“There you are, silly billy,” she said in an American accent.
Silly. Billy. Something about that sent her level of crazy hurtling over the cliff.
Vance closed his eyes and pulled in a heavy breath while a million questions swam through my head. Where had this girl come from? How did she end up striking up a conversation with Vance? Why was she following him into a church, of all places, when he obviously wanted nothing to do with her? If there was one thing I’d learned from watchingThe Hunchback of Notre Dame, it was that churches were meant to be a sanctuary. Evidently, Psycho Barbie here hadn’t gotten that memo.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “But who are you?”
The dangle bracelets on her wrist jangled when she extended her hand. “I’m Madison.”
She looked like a Madison. “And why are you following my boyfriend around?” Had I just done that? And that easily?
A few days ago, I would have gotten up and left him on that pew to fend for himself while cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West on the best broom ride of her life, and now, there I was, lying in a church because he’d given me puppy-dog eyes.
Madison’s perma-smile fell. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend, Vance.”
“I did.” He sighed. “At least fifteen times.”
Now we were both lying in a church underneath big Jesus…
Her attention drifted back to me. “Vance and I used to date. I know how he struggles with commitment.”
Oh. I was judging him. Hard. Madison looked like the result ofLegally Blondeand thePink Pantherhaving a drunken one-night stand. “Really? You two dated?” My gaze cut back to Vance and his reddening cheeks. Embarrassment looked cute on him. “Imagine that,” I said.
“I always said he was the one who got away…” She squeezed a little closer, and I grabbed his arm, yanking him close to me. “If you hadn’t moved back to the US, I’m convinced we’d be married.”
Like hell, they would.
