Page 3 of Vows We Never Made
“Hey, babe,” I say gently, standing up when she gets to me and crushing her in a hug.
She’s like my opposite.
Tall and graceful where I’m short and clumsy, slender where I’m curvy, and she has the softest blonde hair.
She squeezes me back with a slight rattle when she breathes.
“Hey, you.” When we let go, she glances at the table. “Hattie, you didn’t need to do coffee duty. I’m not crashing out that hard.”
I smile because a little quiver of her lip gives away the lie.
“I figured you didn’t need to talk to more strangers than necessary today,” I say, sinking back in my chair and subtly reaching into my purse for the churro bag. “Hey, try this. Just scored it from the new food truck down the street. You’ll thank me after your flight in.”
“Oh my God.” Her sunglasses come off as she grabs the bag and pulls out the chocolate churro, staring at it in awe.
“Art,” I say. “Or diabetes in a few small bites, but y’know…”
“Yeah, you know how much I love dangerous art.” She bites off the end and smiles as she chews. “You know what, it’s official. Churros can be better than sex.”
I giggle. “Bad girl. I’m telling the vendor that. He’ll be so thrilled hemightask for your Instagram.”
Her dusky blue eyes narrow. “Laugh it up, lady. You know how I feel about dating.”
“Joking,” I say dramatically. “I wouldnever.”
“But I’m eating the entire thing now and I don’t care.” She clutches the churro jealously, not minding the slight dusting of sugar it leaves on her shirt.
Holy hell. That’s how I know things are bad with my always put-together friend.
Margot could be a model.
Not just because she has arms and legs for days and high cheekbones, or because her natural style pairs up with designer clothes like chocolate and peanut butter.
She’s also a shoe addict.
Even today, when she’s dressed down so no one recognizes her, she’s wearing a pair of elegant strappy slide-on sandals that I’m ninety percent sure are some custom Louis Vuitton creation.
So for her to shrug when she’s dusting her flawless self in sugar says a lot.
I lean forward, slurping my drink. Rich sweetness explodes in my mouth and the rush of caffeine and caramel goes straight to my veins.
“How was the flight?” I ask.
“Fine. Seatmate kept hitting on me, though. That’s what I get for not buying the other seat.” She grimaces, taking a sip of her coffee and toying with the arm of her sunglasses.
She rolls her eyes at the indignity.
I laugh because she could buy out an entire first-class Delta cabin without breaking a sweat. But she doesn’t flaunt her money, she just talks straight.
The sick part is, she has no clue how fantastically beautiful she actually is. She’s too busy rushing from one place to the next, being adorable, driven, and fabulously wealthy to think about men at all.
Unlike me.
I think about men too much, and I usually wind up drooling over guys who barely notice my existence.
“Did you threaten to throw him out of the plane?” I ask.
“Nope. Ithinkthe guy in the other row might’ve been an air marshal. He was pretty fit and a flight attendant joked about the bulge around his belt.”
