Page 27 of Mexico Can Choke On It
I watch Fiona’s face, catching the flare of panic that darts across her features—gone so quickly I might have imagined it. But I didn’t. She doesn’t want this any more than I do.
Gavin cups her face. “Fi, I trust my sister. There’s nothing she won’t do for the people she loves. When it counts, she shows up.”
Why is he saying that? I’ve been nothing but a nonstop disappointment since I dropped out of college. And this week at his company, I have not been killing it.
“I want you to have your dream wedding,” Gavin tells Fiona, his gaze intense. “And I’ll make it happen. That’s what I do.”
She softens, her expression melting into practiced adoration. “If this is what it takes for you to say yes… then yes.”
Gavin adjusts his suit jacket. “New deal, Petra. Eight days. You help me get through this wedding, and when it’s over? You’re done working for me. I’ll pay for college. No more strings attached, Wildcat.”
Ugh.Using my childhood nickname means he’s serious. The promise dangles in front of me like a carrot on a stick—another hoop to jump through, another test to prove I can be the version of myself Gavin isn’t embarrassed of. Behave. Blend in. Don’t talk too loud or say too much.
If I follow the rules for a week, maybe I’ll finally earn more than a dismissive sigh.
I wish—just once—his love didn’t feel like something I had to earn.
“I’m sorry, big bro. The answer’s no. I don’t do dress-up games and seating charts,” I say, standing my ground. “This isn’t my world. And frankly? I like it that way.”
And I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a spork than pretend to be friends with Fiona Whitfield.
“I’m sticking to our original agreement,” I say. “I’ll finish out the summer working for your company like I promised. I’ll come to the wedding and play the dutiful bridesmaid. I’ll even bring Mom—but I’m not going to help decorate the fairy tale.”
I turn on my heel and head for the door.
It opens before I touch it.
Because of course the security guards are there waiting for me.
I pat myself down with exaggerated motions. “See? No centerpieces in my bra. No antique silverware taped to my thighs. And no decorative Fabergé eggs hiding in my reproductive system.”
They nod. One gestures—after you.
I know I should walk away.
But I am weak. I am human. And the Bryce-shaped temptation is too strong.
I start to turn back, a parting zinger locked and loaded. “Later, Moneyba—”
WHAM!
My arm swings wide and connects with a massive vase.
CRASH!
Thesound of shattering porcelain is deafening. A standing ovation for my performance ofThis Bitch Doesn’t Belong.Starring me, Petra Brinkman.
Suddenly, I’m being escorted—fine, physically hauled—toward the exit, and the last thing I see is the disdain on Bryce’s face.
“Don’t worry,” I call out. “I can cover that… My uterus hits the dark web tonight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
BRYCE
Ishouldn’tbehere.Full stop.
A grown man in a five-thousand-dollar Armani tux with Sterling blood running through his veins does not loiter outside Hollywood dive bars at one in the morning like he’s waiting to make a drug deal.
