Page 50 of Party Favors

“What’s the rubber band for?” He reached for my wrist and my breath caught, but he stopped short, his hand hovering. I was busy watching his actions, longing for the moment when his fingers would make contact with my skin. I glanced up and realized that he was waiting for my permission to touch me. I nodded quickly, my pulse ricocheting wildly the second his fingers stroked the sensitized skin of my inner wrist.

This reaction could not be normal. Something had to be wrong with me that I was in this constant heightened state around him.

Especially when I knew it couldn’t go anywhere.

“You still haven’t explained what it’s for,” he said, and I had to blink several times to reorient myself to my current surroundings. He had hooked his index finger under the rubber band, tugging at it slightly.

I had to swallow down the longing feelings that were overwhelming me. “It’s a technique where if you have intrusive thoughts, you snap the rubber band against your wrist to bring yourself out of it.” The band was there to remind me to do better, be more like Kat, move forward with my life.

“What are you having intrusive thoughts about?” Now his fingers were just gently gliding against my wrist and he was searing my skin with every slight movement.

What was I having intrusive thoughts about?

You.

I felt my lips forming to make theUsound, as if my brain were battling against my mouth to get me to say it out loud.

A waitress approached and announced the first course, which was tagliatelle al ragù. Max took his hand away, and it was like he’d torn off that patch of my skin and taken it with him. I put my hands in my lap, trying to regain some composure, snapping my rubber band over and over again.

“This is amazing,” he said after he took his first bite.

“Told you,” I said. “Bartolomeo is one of the best chefs in the city. I’ve used him for so many events.”

“Have you ever planned weddings?” he asked, settling his linen napkin across his lap.

I did the same with mine, and given how clumsy Max made me, I should have done it sooner. I was just glad I hadn’t spilled anything yet. “Why? Are you in the market for one?”

“Most definitely not.”

“You’re not engaged, right? Or about to get engaged?” He’d already told me that he was single, but I wanted to make sure. Maybe I hadsome weird in-a-committed-relationship sensor in my brain that made it so I was attracted only to men already involved with someone else.

If he was at all concerned about my line of questioning, he didn’t show it. “I’m not and have absolutely no plans to.”

While I was happy he was very single, I was also annoyed at the reminder that he wasn’t looking for a relationship at all and was allergic to commitment. “I will never plan weddings, because most brides are sociopaths. I like doing events where there’s a personal stake and happy emotions are involved, but brides are like skilled thieves/assassins planning some high-stakes mission, willing to strike down anyone in their path to get what they want. I did one wedding for a cousin while I was in high school, and never again. I got personally attacked on a daily basis and I’m too thin-skinned not to let it bother me. Which is probably something I should work on. Thin skin is not a good thing when you’re an event planner.”

I kind of felt like I’d been talking for too long, but Max didn’t look bored. If anything, he looked intrigued. “I don’t know. There must be some situations where thin skin could be an asset. Like what if you’re getting your blood drawn by a weak phlebotomist?”

“Or a lazy mosquito?”

“An elderly vampire.”

We were both grinning at each other as the next course arrived—tortellini with braised greens.

“Do you have any photos of your one wedding attempt?” he asked, and I wondered whether he was just being polite or if he was really curious.

I got my phone and went through my social media to find some of the photos of the reception from my cousin’s wedding. I told him that she had been so terrible through the entire planning process that we hadn’t spoken for three years. She had finally reached out and apologized and we’d been working on rebuilding our relationship.

“Here.” I handed him the phone.

He was looking at the pictures, scrolling through them, when my phone buzzed. “Oh. You have a message. Sorry, I didn’t mean to read it—it just popped up. Who is Mom Send?”

The universe just had to make sure it really and truly messed with me, didn’t it? Plus, I couldn’t be mad at him for inadvertently reading my text when I’d scrolled through messages from his female horde. “That’s from my mother. She always signs her texts and thinks she has to write the word ‘send’ to get it to work.”

“And it’s in all caps because?” he asked as he handed my phone back to me.

“Because she doesn’t know how caps lock works? I don’t know. I’ve told her so many times but she never listens.”

I glanced at the message. It said:

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