Page 14 of The Lovers
“Mystic Maven,” she says, her voice a little misty with awe. “Oh my God.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m Kit,” I reply, and my cheeks feel warm.
“Sorry, that was unprofessional. I’m Zoe. Assistant to the wedding planner—let me know if you need anything.” She steps aside. “Room key, et cetera, is inside.” She motions back to Bungalow Ten before hurrying along to whatever mission awaits her.
I step up to the entrance and give the open door a courtesy knock. When no one responds, I walk inside. The room is brightly lit by every lamp and overhead light in the place. They’ve shoved couches and other comfy furniture to the walls and pulled together the tables to form a maze of solid surfaces throughout the room.
A woman—I’m assuming the wedding planner—stands with her back to the door. She looks like she’s on the phone, but her voice is low, not audible. Her dark brown hair is swept up in a half-up-half-down do, wavy and thick. She’s short, with shapely hips and a tiny waist. She stands like she’s got a rod running the length of her body, perfect posture and pretty golden skin.
Jesus Christ. Stop cataloging her body features with such engrossed interest.
She ends her call and spins around.
For the second time today my heart makes a beeline for my stomach. My breath catches in my throat like a jagged pill. My brain short-circuits.
“Julia.”
Her name in my mouth is the most decadent forbidden fruit.
Chapter Six
Julia
I gave up on believing the wisdom of psychics years ago.
Then I gave up on the hope that Kit Larson would ever sashay back into my life.
For a second I almost convince myself that she’s nothing more than a mirage. Her platinum hair is kissed dusty rose at the tips like it’s fading out from hot pink. Edgier than the muted beach sand color it was the last time I saw her. She’s all curvy lines. Ample hips, perky breasts, soft pink full lips. Her skin is creamy sun-kissed tan, her eyes are cool fresh-mown-grass green.
“Julia.” She says only my name again.
Oh, she’s real. And just as beautiful as she was in high school.
Objectively attractive beyond the face, the body, the effortless style. Not acool girl, per se, but definitely in the same sphere. More dreamy, all curves and secret sweetness; Kit Larson was the girl even straight girls crushed on.
I swallow, dry mouthed. Dry throat. All moisture rushing elsewhere.
I feel a tug toward her. A raw instinct—the kind I’ve trainedmyself to interrogate for flaws. The kind of primitive, illogical draw that would start a war or incite a duel if I were a man.
Then I get a handle on it, because I’m not a man, and Kit Larson is not to be trusted.
Kit Larson was off-limits and then all mine. We were playing with fire and then we were consumed by the flames. Kissing wasn’t enough, and before that weekend was over, we went all the way.
Kit Larsonwas everything.
And then she broke my heart.
“One of us has to say something,” she says, as if that contribution gets her off the hook for more. “Hello.” Her eyes trip to mine, crinkling up with her tentative smile.
My backbone stiffens and I look down at my paperwork. It’s the flower order, a list of every single arrangement, flower type with all the prices itemized. It swims in my vision like an eye exam I’ve convinced myself I’ll fail, and so I do. I squeeze my lids closed, raking my eyeballs around behind them, then I press the tips of my fingers to the rims of my lashes and hold them in place.
When I open my eyes, she’ll be gone.
She’ll realize she’s in the wrong place, realize whatever she’s here for isn’t worth it and turn tail and run. That probably won’t happen. Despite this horrible coincidence, she drove all the way out to the desert for a reason, one she is unlikely to abandon just because I’m here.
I can’t expect her to leave, but I can control my own behavior in her presence. When I open my eyes, I will be a cool-as-a-cucumber, pro wedding planner capable of handling any adversity that comes my way. I will be Julia Kelley, entrepreneur in the making. Not Julia Kelley, girl whose bones turn to putty at the sight of her high school crush.
“I’m still here,” she says. “Just, FYI.”
