Page 4 of Most Likely to Deny Love

I scanned the room, noting the HR manager, Rebecca, if I remembered correctly, watching the exchange with an expression that bordered on satisfaction.

What the fuck is going on here?

“Thank you, Ms. Harris, for a thorough and insightful presentation.” As I moved to the front of the room, I caught Tiffany whispering something to her neighbor with a smirk. Mia’s assistant glared daggers at her from across the aisle.

Definitely something going on there. But Mia’s handling of the situation was professional and evidence based. It impressed me almost as much as her sales figures.

MIA

Ikicked the front door shut behind me and dropped my purse and keys on the small table in the entryway. Fuck, it was good to be home. I mean, our house wasn’t anything fancy, just a cobalt blue bungalow in the Valley suburb of Esperance, NC. But Emily and I had made it ours, with warm neutrals for the walls and furniture, and bright splashes of color from the rugs, cushions and Emily’s art work on the walls.

“Em? I’m home,” I called out, toeing off my heels and leaving them in a jumbled heap by the door. No response, but the soft music filtering from the sunroom at the back of the house told me where she was. She’d be lost in her painting now, so I knew not to disturb her.

Instead, I trudged down the hallway to my bedroom, peeling off layers of professional armor with each step. My blazer landed on the armchair in the corner, quickly followed by my blouse and skirt. I unhooked my bra with a groan of relief that was almost embarrassingly sexual and pulled on my favorite worn-soft t-shirt from college and a pair of cotton pants.

I made my way to the kitchen, my stomach growling as soon as I smelled the delicious scent of whatever Emily had cooked earlier. Sure enough, a covered plate sat in the refrigerator witha sticky note attached:Chicken stir-fry. Microwave 2 mins. Don’t burn the house down.

I rolled my eyes affectionately but still followed her instructions precisely. Two minutes later, plate in hand, I settled onto our slightly shabby but incredibly comfortable sofa and clicked on the TV. The mindless comfort of a baking competition show was exactly what I needed after the day I’d had.

I was halfway through my dinner and the bakers were facing a technical challenge when Emily emerged, a smudge of blue paint across her cheekbone.

“Hey, you’re home.” She seemed almost surprised, as if she’d lost track of time completely. Her blonde hair was piled in a messy bun on top of her head, secured with what looked like an actual paintbrush.

“About half an hour ago.” I motioned to the nearly empty plate. “Thanks for dinner.”

“No problem. What are we watching?” She dropped onto the sofa beside me, tucking her feet up underneath her.

“People failing to make perfect macarons.” I reached for the bottle of wine I’d opened and poured her a glass. “How’s the painting going?”

Emily took the wine with a grateful smile. “Good, I think. Still working through some issues with the perspective, but?—”

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, and we both glanced at it. The name “Mom” flashed on the screen.

Emily groaned. “God, what now?”

She picked up the phone, her expression souring as she read the text. “Fuck me sideways.”

“What?” I asked, though I suspected I already knew.

“My mother is relentless. This is the seventh text today.” Emily turned the phone so I could see the message.

Emily, don’t forget dinner on Wednesday night. 7pm, sharp. Megan is relying on you to help with the color scheme.

“Doesn’t give two fucks about me pursuing a career with my art, but will use it when it suits her.”

There was no denying the bitterness that laced Emily’s words.

“It’s beyond fucked up.”

“Yeah. Thank god for wine, hey?”

“Amen to that.”

We clinked glasses and turned our attention back to the television. Until Emily’s phone buzzed again.

One more thing. Your aunt says Megan is very particular about the style for the bridesmaids dresses. You’re going to have to make sure Mia is on board. It’s not all about her, after all.

I felt the familiar sting of my mom’s words, even delivered secondhand through my aunt. “Wow. The sister act is really on form tonight.”

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