Page 22 of It Happened on a Sunday
Oh, yeah, she’s gone full Mama Bear. She never calls me “baby” unless she’s feeling way overprotective. I move toward her, then turn to Vittoria at the last second. “Would you like to join us?”
Pauline doesn’t object, but I feel her side-eye in my bones.
Vittoria looks between us. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all.” Pauline is obviously her hero, and—even if she was a total ass to me—I can understand that sentiment. “Come on over.”
Pauline shoots me another look, but the pics get taken. Then Bryan escorts theVanity Fairteam out the door while I make my way over to the coffee cart, feeling like I’ve run a marathon or four.
“You can’t reward bad behavior,” Pauline tells me as she elegantly perches on the other end of the couch.
“Maybe not, but leading with kindness is never a bad thing,” I toss back. “I learned that from you.”
“Sure, that’s the lesson you choose to glom on to,” she says with a sniff. But I can see the approval in her eyes.
I hold up a cup. “Want some coffee?”
“Only if you have real cream. That half-and-half stuff gives me hives.”
“Half-and-half is perfectly fine.”
“Nothing done halfway is fine,” Pauline expands, crossing her billion-dollar legs. “You give either your all or nothing. Anything in between is for whiners and weaklings. We are neither, Sloane.”
She was totally looking for a chance to drop some wisdom.
“You know, everything doesn’t have to be a teachable moment,” I tell her as I pour a three-second dollop of cream into her cup, just the way she likes it. “Some people just have regular conversations.”
“Some people don’t have the number one tour in America right now, either.” She raises a single, shapely brow as high as decades of L.A.’s finest Botox injections will allow. “You want to be one of those people?”
“Absolutely.” I bat my eyes at her as I cross the room to give her the coffee. And it’s only half a lie.
But that just makes her words sting more. Because I’ve been camped in that halfway place for a while now. Not moving forward but not letting go. Just stuck, pretending that I’m safe. And happy.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” she sniffs as I hand her the cup before curling up on the other side of the couch with my own.
“I would never.”
For a second, it looks like she’s about to roast me for my insouciance. But she must decide to let it go, because she takes a long, slow sip of coffee instead. “What time do we need to leave for the venue tonight?”
“I did sound check this morning, so not for an hour and a half or so.”
“Oh, good.” Her dark eyes gleam. “That gives you plenty of time to tell me about the guy.”
For the second time today, my drink goes down the wrong pipe. Only this time I don’t bother to hide it. When I finally finish coughing, it’s to find Pauline tucked into her corner of the couch with aspill itexpression on her face—and she’s definitely not talking about the coffee.
“What guy?” I ask, even though I know it’s way too late for that.
“Oh, please.” She uses her eyes to call me out. “That reporter clearly rubbed you the wrong way, which usually means thatone”—she holds up a single, stiletto-adorned nail—“they asked you about romance. Andtwo”—a second graceful finger joins the first, and Pauline leans forward, mischief sparkling in her onyx-colored eyes—“they’re actually onto something.”
“That’s not true!” My voice comes out an octave too high, which only stokes the flames of her glee, before I sigh in defeat. “Did Bryan message you?”
“Bryan? As if.” This time, her laugh is derisive. “You think I need him to tell me something’s going on with you?”
“Nothing’s going on. I swear. There’s nothing to tell.”
“And yet you were upset when I got here,” she murmurs.
“By the time you got here, I was over being upset. I’d already handled the situation.”
