Page 51 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

“Okay, I’m ready,” Maya says from behind me, stepping out of the bedroom, and I turn around.

“Oh, whoa,” I say before I can stop myself. Then I rub the back of my neck, embarrassed. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing.

But Maya doesn’t seem to notice. She’s twisting her clasped hands in front of her as she looks nervously at me. “Is this okay?” she asks, biting her full lower lip. “How do I look?”

“You look—” I break off, shaking my head and smiling reluctantly. “You look stupid hot, Maya.”

Some of the tension leaves her body as she laughs, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. “I thought you were going to drop that.”

“I told you I wasn’t,” I say, still smiling. “I mean it, though.” And I do. She’s wearing dark jeans that hug her form, a flowing red top that exposes one golden shoulder, and—I swallow—bright red heels that must be at least four inches. Her hair flows down her back, and she’s done something to her eyes—mascara, maybe.

“Your mom will approve?” she says, looking anxious once more.

Truthfully, my mother will be hoping for someone a bit more…demure. Nancy Anthony doesn’t expose her shoulders or wear red heels. But no way am I telling Maya that. She’s already nervous enough, and with how small her suitcase was, I doubt she brought more than one option. Instead I just hold my hand out to her.

“You look gorgeous,” I say honestly. “Shall we go?”

She takes a deep breath before saying, “Yes. Let’s go.” Then she slips her hand into mine.

I don’t need to be holding her hand yet. I don’t need to hold her hand at all, truthfully, if Ireallydon’t want to. But here we are, in our room, where we don’t have to pretend for anyone, and I already have my fingers threaded through hers.

“The palms of your hands are very intimate, aren’t they?” she says musingly, looking down at our clasped hands.

I blink in surprise as I pull the room key out of my pocket. “What?”

“I read once that there are something like seventeen-thousand touch receptors and nerve endings in the palm of your hand,” she goes on, still looking at our hands. “That’s a lot of feeling.” She glances up at me. “Isn’t it?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I say. But I can kind of see what she means; having the palms of our hands pressed together like this does feel intimate, especially since her hands are so small and soft and warm. “Do you not want to hold hands?”

“You have very attractive hands, so I’m all for it.”

I raise one brow at her, my pulse jumping, and watch as she freezes in place, realizing what she’s said.

She visibly swallows and then looks over at me. “I mean, I don’t mind.” She clears her throat awkwardly. “If you think we should for your mom, we can.”

I just nod, hiding my smirk, and we make our way to the door and out of our suite, locking it behind us. In her heels Maya still only reaches somewhere around my chin, and I think I could take one step for every two of hers. When we reach the staircase, I hesitate, because I’m not sure how she’s going to do the steps in shoes like that. But she just keeps going, resting one hand lightly on the banister as we descend.

“So where are we meeting her?” she says to me.

“You seem very calm,” I say.

“I’m definitely not,” she says, tilting a little smile in my direction. “I’m fully panicking that I’m going to do or say something stupid. But I’m good at locking it down, I guess.”

I give her hand a squeeze. “You’ll be fine. And we’re meeting her at the restaurant that’s right off the lobby. I didn’t see it earlier, but I know it’s there somewhere.”

She nods. “Okay.”

It occurs to me suddenly that this might be a good moment to investigate if Maya and Hanan are the same person; my mother will introduce herself, and Hanan knows my mother’s name is Nancy. I’ll have to pay attention, see how she reacts to that coincidence.

We find the restaurant at the end of a hallway that leads off the lobby. There’s a host’s stand outside of the entrance, and a freckled man in black and white asks if we want a table for two.

“We’re meeting someone, actually,” I say. “We’re with the Anthony party.”

“Of course,” the freckled man says, nodding. Despite how young he looks, he’s very professional and composed as he leads us through the restaurant. The walls are lined with windows and dotted with large potted plants, mostly of the tropical variety, which I guess means they’re probably fake.

The man slows down as we reach the far end of the room, and my eyes land on the table we’re approaching. My heart sinks as I get a good look at who’s sitting there. My mother, dressed to the nines in a salmon pink blazer, a white shirt, and a shiny silver necklace. My father, only the top of his salt-and-pepper head visible as he stares down at his phone. And then, looking primly proper in a blue button-down shirt, Valencia Devlin.

A shot of worry goes through me. I give Maya’s hand a little tug, and she moves closer, looking at me. Sliding my arm around her waist, I whisper into her ear, “My mother appears to have brought my ex.” This close to her, I can smell her vanilla scent, feel her soft hair brush against my skin.

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