Page 81 of Miss Matched

Kennedy

Thebangingonmy door pulls me out of a dead sleep.

I want to be alone.

I want to forget about Zac.

I want the throbbing in my chest to stop hurting so damn much.

“Open up, or I’m kicking this door in, and you’re going to owe me a pair of Louboutins!” Luce yells.

Time is up on my disappearing act. I’ve avoided the office easily, saying I’m not feeling well and working from home for a few days. But my friends know better. Four days of dodging calls and texts has led me to an inevitable intervention.

I flip the lock, and they open the door before my fingers reach the handle.

“Sweetie,” Monica says, wrapping her arms around me. “You’re alive.”

“And you need a shower,” Luce points out, giving me a one-armed hug.

Monica pulls away and holds my shoulders. “We brought ice cream, vodka, Chinese food—”

“And porn,” Luce finishes with a grin.

“Why are we watching porn?” I roll my eyes and drop onto a stool.

“Oh, we aren’t,” Luce says. “But if none of the other options work, you can always resort to orgasming your way out of whatever funk Mr. BDE has gotten you in.”

“Remind me again, how do orgasms solve problems?”

Luce hitches an eyebrow and takes the stool next to me. “How do they not?”

I look to Monica for some sanity in the situation, but she just shrugs.

“Fine,” I sigh. “But who says this has anything to do with Zac?”

Monica crosses her arms over her chest, and Luce narrows her eyes like I’ve insulted her intelligence. Here I thought I’d be able to nurse this broken whatever-it-is in peace, and my girls see straight through me.

“All right, hand me the ice cream.” I wiggle my fingers at it and grab a spoon. “And the vodka.”

“Atta girl.” Luce smiles as she starts pouring shots.

She places one in front of each of us, and we knock them back. I appreciate the burn that trails from my throat to the hole in my chest.

“We saw the article,” Monica says, setting her glass down just long enough for Luce to fill it up again.

I take the second shot, and now my head is really swimming. At this rate, I’ll be too messed up to care what way is up or down in an hour. Maybe this is the intervention I needed days ago.

“I’m bad for business,” I tell them, digging into the ice cream.

Monica’s jaw drops open. “He didn’t say that. Tell me he didn’t say that.”

My eyebrows lift. “More or less. He came to me for damage control, and now I’m a liability. So…” I shove in another bite.

“Men and their egos.” Luce frowns.

“Ego, yes.” I point the spoon at her. “But he was already on thin ice with the board, and then his dad was in the hospital.”

Luce plants a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t need to defend him, sweetie. We’re here for you.”

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