Page 119 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Gav-Gav, sweetheart, this is our artistic legacy,” Fiona purrs. “Someday our children will inherit this beautiful representation of our love.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, “don’t think they’ll be fighting over this one.”
“What’s the agenda?” Bryce replies.
“It’s the auditing team,” Gavin says while maintaining his statuesque pose. “Someone leaked rumors about executive restructuring at Heartvest. They want clarification that there is no shake-up before we finalize the public offering.”
The transformation in Bryce is immediate(and alarming). His entire frame goes rigid. That telltale finger starts its nervous percussion against his thigh—tap-tap-tap—and his breathing suggests internal panic.
Whatever this restructuring rumor involves, it’s hit a nerve the size of the Grand Canyon.
“SILENCE! The moment is climaxing!” Echo booms across the salon as if he’s summoning lightning. “And Gavin,for the love of Aphrodite’s ankles,stop shifting. Your aura is wrinkling.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Bryce announces, vaulting from his chair like the seat has caught fire.
He’s out the door before I can blink. My phone buzzes.
Moneybags:We need to talk.
Oh, hell no.Nothing good ever follows those four words. I’m already picturing his cover-your-ass speech about maintaining appropriate boundaries and preserving his sacred friendship with Gavin.
Me:No need. I had fun. You had fun. One night. That was the point, right?
The little typing bubbles appear. Then disappear. Then reappear. Then vanish again like they’re emotionally conflicted Morsecode.
Finally:
Moneybags:If that’s what you want.
And there it is. The polite agreement to pretend our night of passion never happened. No fight. No protest. Just… acceptance.
My throat splinters like I’ve swallowed broken glass.
I’m seconds from throwing myself a one-woman sob parade, when Hana plops into Bryce’s empty seat with a dreamy sigh.
“This painting is a total fairy tale. I hope my wedding portrait is that magical. Though maybe with a bit more fabric? You know, for my fiancé. He’s not one to go shirtless, even at the beach or when he’s all sweaty from… um, marital activities. At least that’s what his assistant told me.”
I’m relieved when she doesn’t pause for air, just barrels forward.
“Today is going to be exquisite! Cultural activities followed by spa pampering? I simply cannot imagine anything more perfect.”
“I’m less thrilled about the part where a stranger waxes my lady bits in the name of relaxation.”
“Oh my gosh, Petra, you’re so funny and naturally gorgeous. You have that effortless beauty that takes the rest of us hours and a whole team of professionals to achieve. Your bone structure… is goals.”
I pause, mentally bracing for the fine print: “for someone with your vibe,” or “if you’re into quirky looks”—the usual sparkle-coated stab that girls like her deliver with a smile and a blowout.
But it doesn’t come.
Hana keeps grinning at me as if I’m the Mona Lisa with better lipstick. Pure sincerity.
Well, shit.I’m so used to dealing with mean girls and backhanded compliments, I forgot honesty was still a thing.
“Maybe you can teach me how to enjoy all this spa nonsense,” I say, surprising myself.
Hana claps her hands and squeals. “YES! I’ll be your spa spirit guide! Trust me, I won’t steer you wrong!”
“Just so we’re clear, though—if you try to get me to wax my butthole, I’m out.”
