I’m about to grip the door handle and push when I hear footsteps approaching.
Suddenly, an idea occurs to me, one that really should earn me the nickname Nancy Drew.
If I barge in there and confront Gemma and Harry together, it’s going to be easier for them to erect a defense around their relationship. Harry will handle it as he handles everything, with skill and ease, and Gemma will just follow his lead.
I feel more than a little silly as I turn and retreat down the stairs, ducking into the small nook where Adam went all weird on me and pressing myself against the wall.
It looks like I’ve gone from fitness blogger to sleuth in no time at all.
I watch as the tall, elegant-looking woman leaves the building and begins walking to the parking lot. She’s wearing a colorful kaftan that flows around her sleek build, making her look like she’s floating as she approaches the lot, her kaftan fluttering around beautifully.
Annoyingly, I can’t help but admit I can see what Harry sees in her.
She’s beautiful.
She’s elegant.
And she’s not me.
Quickly checking that Harry isn’t going to emerge, too, I walk toward the parking lot, being careful not to approach her too quickly.
I’m hardly thinking, my mind is clouded with my sharp outrage.
As I leave the field and walk down the short stretch that leads to the parking lot, my cellphone buzzes from my pocket. I take it out and glance at it.
It’s Markus Kirby, the sponsor who emailed me a couple of days ago after reading my blog posts about the camp.
Love the posts. You’re in New York, right? I’d love to meet sometime.
I was so thrilled when I got that email, leaping around my dorm room like a woman who’d just won the lottery. I know it’s silly, maybe, celebrating the small-time stuff like it’s the biggest thing in the world.
But that’s how empires are built, right, one stone at a time?
But I’ve got business to take care of here first.
I ignore the call and pace into the lot, spotting Gemma as she climbs into a lime-green rental car. I walk over, the sound of her engine starting rumbling toward me like a beacon.
My phone buzzes again from my pocket, over and over.
It’s starting to get really annoying.
I pace over to the side of the car and tap on her window with my fingernails,tap-tap-tap, as though I’m about to ask for directions.
She glances at me with her stylish glasses. “Um, yes?” she says, her accent one-hundred percent English royalty as she rolls down the window. “Can I help you?”
“I don’t know, Gemma,” I say. “Can you?”
Her eyes widen. “I’m ever so sorry. Have we met before?”
“I’m a friend of Harry’s,” I say, hardly hearing my own words. My voice is choked. Angry is a mother-fricking understatement. “I just wanted to ask, how’s it going with you two? How’s it going with Harry Junior?”
“Okay, this is starting to really make me uncomfortable.” She glances around the lot as though she’s checking for witnesses, as though she thinks I’m downright insane. “If I’ve done anything to offend you, I’m ever so sorry.”
My cellphone keeps buzzing, on and on and on. It’s so insistent.
It’s soannoying.
“Offend me?” I yell, my livid rage getting the better of me. “Oh, no, I’m not offended, not at all. I just think it’s pretty rude that—Oh, will my phone justshut up?”
