Page 84 of The Lovers
Cunt-blocking me, hopefully for the last time.
She’s got two glasses of champagne in hand. “I was going to offer—”
“I’m covered,” I say, trying to step past her. She moves into my way.
“Truce, please,” she says. She places one glass on the nearby table, and raises the other in surrender. “Just want to chat and then I swear, you can go back to…” She clears her throat. “Whatever it is that you’re doing.”
I should not take her up on the offer. Even just a chat with Piper can turn into a mindfuck of labyrinthine design. Our last few months together felt like being in an endless bad dream. Like following the exit signs in a parking garage but never getting out. We would have the same fights over and over, just with different set dressing, and every time I would walk out of them thinking thatthis timewould bethe timeshe finally understood my perspective.This timeshe would choose to respect me.
That time never came.
“Fine,” I say, because I would rather keep her placated with a few minutes of my time than have to keep dodging her all night. “Let’s chat.”
I follow her out of the reception, winding back toward the main building.
I don’t owe her anything, and in a few hours, I will no longer be working the Hayden-Morgan wedding. I will be off duty, and hopefully getting up to something naughty with Kit in her outdoor bathtub. In a few hours, I will not have to think about what Piper Cunningham wants from me again.
“Are you taking me off somewhere to murder me?” I quip,making sure to add a chuckle to keep the mood light—if you can ever really keep it light when murder is mentioned.
She walks us into one of the alcove seating areas. This one has an outdoor couch and a few funky bamboo chairs all situated beside a mini bocce ball court. She stops beside one of the stray balls, picking it up with her free hand.
Okay, so, murder isn’t totally off the table, I see.
“The wedding was beautiful,” she begins. Mundane small talk. Piper is great at it. She’s had years of practicing surface-level chitchat. “Every detail felt tailored to the two of them.”
“That’s usually the goal of a wedding planner,” I reply, defenses up. Her eyes land on mine, steady and serious. I control my urge to swallow, but not the way my nerves spike, making the thrum of my pulse pound in my ears.
“This is my first chance to see one of your weddings in real time,” she says, rolling the ball in the palm of her hand. “It makes me proud.”
“Pride that is totally unwarranted.”
She rolls her eyes, her Cheshire-Cat smile faltering. “Come on, I can take a little credit.” She looks me up and down. I’m wearing a suit vest and pants that she bought me. Dark green Versace. One of the most expensive items I own and a gift fromher. I packed in a robotic state. Checking off items on my list and not really thinking about choices.
I can’t believe I picked this ensemble when I already knew she would be here.
Fuck my overextended brain.
“I’m donating this as soon as I get back to LA,” I reply. I wish I could rend it to rags right here, but that would probably cross a professional boundary. Nudity at work is definitely frowned upon.
“It’s designer. At least sell it on Poshmark or something.” She’s smirking.
“And what, send you half the profits?” I reply, trying not to smile. Never smile. Never show weakness or compassion or care with her.
“I’d settle for a dinner,” she says. “On you.”
My stomach sours. “I’ve made my position clear this whole weekend. I’ve told you I want nothing but the best for you, but that doesn’t include having me in your life.” Fuck my wobbling chin and my feelings.
“The tarot hottie isn’t a reason to cut me out—”
Tarot hottie.She uses her nickname for Kit as a way to undercut her as a valid choice. My temper flares. “You’re a narcissistic prick!” The words burst from me like an explosion. “That’swhy I am cutting you out.That’swhy I don’t want anything to do with you.”
Her jaw clenches. She steps forward, whipping out her phone.
I refuse to concede ground, so even though she’s too close for comfort, I don’t back up. She swipes the screen open to show me Kit’s Instagram feed. In the corner, I see that she’s signed in to one of her secret accounts. She’s got a few, on all different platforms, that she uses to lurk/stalk everyone from potential interview subjects to friends she secretly hates.
“Do you follow her?” I ask, but I don’t know why I would be surprised if she does. Keeping tabs on her competition is one of her trademarks. Her eyes darken, the color chilling. She’s been caught and she hates that. I tense my jaw. “How long have you been following her?”
“That doesn’t matter—” she starts.
