Page 115 of Matteo
“I didn’t ask for relationship advice,” he grumbled.
“Well, you got it anyhow. Consider it my relationship advice quota for the day.”
My phone buzzed and I sidestepped him, erasing this whole conversation from my mind as I read my sister’s message to all the girls in our dorm.
Hannah: I have a brilliant idea. Let’s do a bikini car wash. It’s my bridal shower after all.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
ARIANNA
Thatbrilliant ideatook place two days later, before the official kickoff of the fall semester, beside a run-down bowling alley in the middle of nowhere twenty miles outside D’Arc’s massive campus.
The turnout for the bizarre car wash was surprisingly large, considering there was nothing but fields for miles in every direction. But social media was a powerful tool and images of young women clad in nothing but bikinis, high heels, and bubbles were apparently enough to draw the masses.
Lines of luxury cars, sedans, old beat-down trucks, and expensive sports cars stretched as far as the eye could see. Some waited in the scorching sun, others joined in on the party, and others just parked and watched like fucked-up voyeurs.
The girls and I leaned against a crumbling wall, watching the boys from a nearby college polish a row of cars under Hannah’s detailed instructions. Every so often she’d take selfies and post them on Instagram, making all of our phones chime with notifications.
“I’m seriously tempted to mute this thing,” Penelope grumbled, staring at the device in her hand.
“God, my feet are killing me,” I grumbled as I kicked off my heels and stretched my traumatized toes, breathing a relieved sigh. Some of the girls mimicked the move too. Washing cars wearing heels was idiotic, yet here we were.
My eyes darted to my twin who was laughing a bit too loud, spraying one of the students who was clearly infatuated with her. Her behavior made no sense. She got Matteo, yet she was still flirting away.
“What possessed her to do this?” Skye signed, looking at me for answers. “I’ve never heard of a bikini car wash being a bridal shower event?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but she wanted it, so…” I shrugged, trailing off. But Hannah tended to do things when she wasn’t in the right frame of mind, and the harder you pushed her, the more chaos followed.
A Tate McRae playlist blasted through the speakers, and Hannah shot the college guys with a bubble machine gun, but her attention wasn’t on them. Instead, she was eyeing the parking lot almost as if she was waiting for someone.
“She’s been acting strange,” Penelope echoed my earlier sentiments. “Is it the engagement?” Then realizing it was inconsiderate, she shot an apologetic look at Francesca. “Sorry, I’m sure your brother is great and all?—”
Francesca raised her palm and stopped her. “No apologies needed, but from what I understand, she was given a choice and could have said no.”
Gianna scoffed. “As if Hannah would ever turn down a challenge.”
That familiar pain pierced through my chest, but I ignored it. I’d become really good at it by now.
“What do you mean?” Amara questioned.
“She’s been infatuated with Matteo since we were toddlers,” I offered. “The moment she saw him, she announced she’d marry him.”
“Good for her for recognizing her mate,” Anya grumbled. “Seems kind of… over the top, though, if you ask me.”
“A mate?” Penelope teased. “You make it sound like she’s a dog.”
“Too many shifter romance novels,” she muttered, drawing a round of laughter.
“There’s one thing I don’t get,” Gianna said. “Why is she flirting and acting like that if she finally got the man she wanted?”
“I’d like to know too,” Francesca agreed, flicking me a curious glance, but I just shrugged. I had no idea what had gotten into Hannah, and she refused to confide in me. But I knew that when my twin was ready, she’d reach out and I’d be there for her.
“We don’t need to understand all of Hannah’s motives,” I said sharply, instantly regretting it. I flashed them an apologetic smile. “Sorry, just cranky.”
“What’s wrong withyoulately?” Francesca took a sip of her drink, eyeing me. Matteo’s sister might come off flighty sometimes, but it was all a front. She was more perceptive than an average twenty-one-year-old.
“Maybe I need therapy,” I joked, shrugging nonchalantly.
