Page 10 of The Fine Art of Faking It
“You’re going to march back in there and dance every dance with Ramesh with a big, fat smile on your face. And then when this is all over, you’re meeting me at my house and we’re going to get revenge on Davis “The Dick” Gates.
6
Thirteen years later
Righteous Subs smelled of onions and bread, the fresh-baked every morning kind that had diners composing sonnets to carbs. Eden swooned over her turkey sub loaded with pickles, onions, and sweet peppers in the orange basket that matched the wild walls of the crowded shop.
She was treating herself—and BFF Sammy—today. Her meeting with the Beautification Committee for hosting their annual reunion luncheon at the Lunar Inn had been a success. She was marching down the path of established, successful business owner, taking no prisoners along the way. Four years into the inn’s ownership, Eden finally felt like she was swimming instead of just treading water.
The inn had been at seventy-five percent occupancy for the entire month, her best yet. And she was feeling good. Gone—mostly—were the days of her wayward youth. She’d left her rebellious ways in the dust. Blue Moon was finally starting to recognize her as an established, successful business owner. A credit to the community. Here she was in a smart pencil skirt and sleeveless blouse celebrating a professional success. Yes, things were finally turning in the direction she wanted.
Sammy, in her day-off uniform of gym shorts, tank, and ponytail, snagged a table as it was vacated by Wilson and Penny Abramovich. Customers had to move quickly if they wanted a seat with their subs during the lunch rush. There were seven tables, in eye-searing canary yellow with red vinyl cushioned chairs, and usually triple that many customers vying for them.
Eden executed a spin to head toward the napkin dispenser and soda fountain and smacked face first into a wall of solid flesh.
“Oh, God.” Her basket flipped up against her chest in the collision spreading onions and mayo across her business-appropriate cleavage.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see— oh, hell.” That voice. Dear God.
Eden looked up from her hoagie-dosed breasts and into familiar chestnut brown eyes. Her world narrowed in one slow motion tunnel of focus. The din of the sub shop disappeared into a low buzzing in her ears.
He seemed taller than she remembered. Even in heels she still had to tilt to see that damn perfect face. He was definitely broader in the shoulders than he had been over a decade ago. Gone was the wispy facial hair. Nothing adorned that stern jaw line. And his hair. The floppy mop was missing and in its place was a sexy, tousled designer cut.
He was wearing a suit, sans tie. One that fit him like his tailor had intimate knowledge of every inch of his body.
The same blade-straight nose and those perfect cheekbones had her heart leaping into her throat and her nipples tightening to sharp points.Traitors.
She’d enjoyed thirteen blissful Davis-free years. In that time, she’d dated when she felt like it. But put her focus almost entirely into building her business and carefully correcting her sullied reputation. Gone was the heartbroken teen and her quest for vengeance that was mentioned only rarely now. In her place was a strong, confident business owner.
She’d practically convinced herself that he’d never existed. But Mr. West Coast was standing in front of her, picking sweet peppers out of her cleavage with long fingers. Long, ringless fingers.
Awareness rushed through her like a fist to the gut as his finger tip grazed the upper curve of her breast.
“I’m so sorry,” He was still apologizing. Didn’t he know who she was? Didn’t he know he wasn’t allowed to speak to her?
“My first day back and I practically run you over and destroy your lunch.”
“Back?” Eden’s power of speech finally reemerged from the cloud of anger, shock, and unexpected lust. Just because her enemy had turned into a spectacular male specimen didnotmean she was going to dissolve into a puddle at his feet. If anything, his physical appeal was just another mark against him.
She grabbed his hand as he went in to fish out a particularly long piece of onion.
His eyes met hers and she reconsidered her stance on dissolving… for a second. She was Eden Freaking Moody. She had three generations of pissed-offness behind her.
Davis gave her a crooked grin, one thing that hadn’t changed since high school. Eden hated the sugary warmth she felt in her stomach. Her body was operating on autopilot as if it had forgotten how he’d hurt her.
“First day back in Blue Moon,” he told her. “I’m excited to finally be home. I’ll be honest. I was hoping to run into you. Though obviously not like this.” He gestured at the mess on her shirt.
“You’re home.” She repeated it carefully. For the first time since mayonnaise had met skin, Eden became aware that every single pair of eyes in the sub shop were on them. Mouths open, cellphones recording, hoagies ignored.
Eden Moody and Davis Gates in the same room. Something terrible was guaranteed to happen.
That whooshing sound she heard was all her years of hard work making Blue Moon forget The Incident collapsing in on themselves. Destroyed in one fell swoop by a sex god in a suit. A suited sex god who, upon closer inspection, had neatly escaped any sub shrapnel.
Of course, nothing ever stuck to Davis. He was the good guy, the golden boy, the nice one. Except when it came to her. Not only had he crushed her, but one tiny, little, juicy, accidental moment of revenge had propelled her into the role of the permanent villain.
“Don’t piss off Eden. The fire department’s response time is too slow! Ha! Ha!”
“You wanted to run into me?” Eden felt like a damn parrot.
