Page 41 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“You make it sound so romantic.”
Bryce shrugs. “Not trying to.”
I sigh. Loudly. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”
“No.”
Katie and Cam would duct tape me to a chair if they knew I was considering this. But I can’t help myself. Not because I believe in fairy tales and all that happily ever after crap. I just wanna bite into that poison apple, savor the taste, and prove it won’t take me down again.
“Fine, I’ll do it,” I snap. “I’ll go to Mexico. Mainly because I want to see Fiona break down over lukewarm mimosas and off-brand humidity. That’s peak entertainment. But if this goes to hell—and it will—I’m tasing you again.”
“Deal.” He holds out his hand like we’re sealing a blood pact and not the worst idea I’ve ever had.
I shake it. Then he glances at the mountainous piles of laundry around my apartment.
“Which one of those is the formalwear heap?”
“Eat a brick.”
“Pack your essentials. We have a stop to make before the jet.”
Then he smiles—a genuine smile—and my heart does a damn triple axel. Seeing that grin light up his face is my new addiction.
This is bad.I have royally fucked up.
***
Let’ssetthingsstraight.There are a million places I’d rather be than parked in front of a fancy-ass store on Rodeo Drive. First things that come to mind:
Getting pap smear from a drunken clown.
Holding Fiona’s hand during her weekly colonic.
Hell.
“I’ll save you the trouble, B. I’m not getting out. Beverly Hills is the enemy.”
Through the tinted limousine windows, I notice this particular store has no flashy signs. No mannequins. Just a solid gold plaque with some fancy script that probably translates to “Broke Folks, Keep Walking.”
“Beverly Hills is a zip code, Pip. It doesn’t have an agenda.”
“I packed clothes. Perfectly acceptable clothes. My trusty black dress. The good jeans without rips in the crotch. And my slutty heels. I’m all set.”
“There is an expected attire for Casa Cashmere.”
“I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”
