Page 4 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“The Jilted Dressmaker!” one headline screamed.
I’ve been reduced to a cheesy made-for-TV movie.
“Danielle texted me that she made it home safe. She wanted to know how you were holding up.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“I lied and said you were doing fine. I knew if I didn’t, she and those boobs of hers would turn around and get right back on a plane.” He makes a retching sound. “How anyone could move to Cleveland after growing up in San Fran is beyond me. Ohio is the Florida of the Midwest.”
“You’re a terrible snob.”
“Merci. When are you going to call your father?”
I groan, burying my face in the pillow. When I think of all the money my father sent me for the wedding, I want to die. The fabric for the gowns alone cost thousands.
My voice is muffled by the pillow when I speak. “He thinks I’m on my honeymoon. I’ve got another eleven days before I have to call him.”
“Unless he sees the pictures online.”
I consider that, but decide the likelihood that my technology-challenged father will be near enough to a computer to glimpse evidence of his only child being roundly mocked by the crème de la crème of San Francisco society is close to nil. I sent him a Kindle for Christmas one year, and he wanted to know how to open it. He thought it was a really flat book.
“Tell me again why we didn’t go on your honeymoon like the girls did in Sex and the City after Carrie got dumped by Big at the altar?”
“Because two weeks at a dude ranch in Montana was Brad’s idea of bliss, not mine. And you know very well Carrie didn’t get dumped at the altar. She got dumped over the phone at the church before she had to walk down the aisle.”
Lucky bitch.
Sounding wistful, Jenner sighs. “Au contraire. Two weeks at a dude ranch sounds like absolute heaven, darling. Just think—all those cowboys. And their lassos. Oh my.”
When I look up at him, he’s fanning his face with the empty bag of chips.
“No. No cowboys. No boys of any kind, for that matter. I don’t care if I never see another man for the rest of my life!”
Jenner stops fanning and quirks his brows. “You do realize I’m the proud owner of a penis, yes?”
“You don’t count.”
“Ouch!”
“You know what I mean!” I flop back into the pillow, but pop back up when I hear a knock on the front door.
Jenner and I look at each other. My heart starts to pound. The knock comes again, this time louder.
Half-terrified and half-furious, I whisper, “Do you think it’s Brad?”
Very droll, Jenner says, “I rather doubt it, darling, since he has a key. He’s probably still picking bits of cartilage out of his teeth, anyway.” As the knocking continues, Jenner sits up and looks toward the door. “Do you want me to get it?”
“Why are they knocking and not ringing the bell?” For some reason, that strikes me as an ominous sign. What kind of person would rather pound a fist on the door over and over than press a nice civilized button?
“I’ll just go look through the peephole and see who it is.”
Before I can protest, Jenner has glided out of the room. In a moment, his voice drifts down the hallway. “It appears to be a courier. Should I open up?”
A courier? More likely another member of the paparazzi trying to snap a candid picture of the senator’s poor, cast-off daughter-in-law-to-never-be.
My curiosity gets the better of me. I trot barefoot to the front door in my ice cream–stained sweats and push Jenner aside so I can press my face against the door and look through the peephole.
Sure enough, it’s a uniformed courier, holding a small envelope and a clipboard.
