“Secondly, exactlyhowis thismyfault?” I point at myself. “I took you home last night.”
The cocky-ass smirk that tips Brookes’s lips makes my stomach roll, my hand itching to slap him.
“I left you passed out on the floor of your hotel!”
“You left him on the floor?” Patrick asks quietly.
I throw a warning glower in my boss’s direction. “He was drunk, and he tried tokissme.”
Patrick quirks a brow. “Are you sureyoudidn’t give him the black eye?”
“I’m about to give him a matching set,” I say, staring directly at Brookes.
“I can’t be held responsible for what I do when I’m blackout,” Brookes says, shrugging one of his wide shoulders. “If you’d stayed with me, you could’ve been there to stop me from puking and then rallying in the hotel bar.”
I balk. “I amnotyour babysitter!”
“Okay, okay,” Patrick interjects, hands held in the air, placatingly. “I’ll speak to production to see if we can record your voiceovers today instead of Friday, and then we’ll hope that this”—he waves a hand, indicating Brookes’s black eye—“settles down so we can film tomorrow.”
Patrick turns to me. “Are you okay to continue with this, or should I have one of the other guys take over?”
I grit my teeth, narrowing my eyes as Brookes continues looking at me like he’s trying to undress me with his gaze. And like hell I am going to let him win. My end goal at SNN is to move into production. This is unfortunately one the challengeswith trying to get there. And I’m Lance Draper’s daughter; stubbornness is in my genes.
“No.” I shake my head, “I can do it.”
Brookes smiles victoriously, and fuck him; if he’s not careful, I’ll make the next few days of his life a living hell.
“Ouch, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Brookes winces, tearing the headphones off his head and glaring at me through the window of the recording booth.
I bite back my grin, moving my hand away from the volume dial. “Whoops. Sorry,” I say into the microphone, entirely unapologetic.
“You know you can really hurt him by doing that,” Matt, the fresh-out-of-college recording engineer says out the corner of his mouth.
“God willing…” I murmur, still smiling innocently at Brookes as he makes himself comfortable in the booth.
“What’s your beef with him?” Matt asks, fiddling with the soundboard like the pro he is. “I thought all women were, like, obsessed with the dude.”
“I suspect those are just the women who have never actually met him in real life.”
Matt nods. “Noted.”
As Matt directs Brookes, I nestle into the sofa that sits against the far wall, using the time to scroll aimlessly on social media. But, of course, the second I unlock my phone, I see a new message from my mother that gives me an immediate case of anxiety.
Mother: The wedding coordinator requires your response as soon as possible.
Wedding coordinator? I snort. Her name is Celeste, and I’msure she’s just as much an incompetent twit now as she was back in high school.
I briefly mull over whether or not it would be considered in bad taste to block my own mother’s contact. If anything were ever an emergency, it’s not like she’d call me.
Drafting a response, I bite my thumb nail, considering my words before I finally press send.
Me: I’ll send it tonight.
Her reply comes through almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting with her phone in her hand.
Mother: So? What does that mean? Are you coming?
It’s almost as if I can feel my heart thumping in the back of my throat. Surely, this isn’t normal; it can’t be normal to feel this much trepidation at the sheer concept of attending one’s own mother’s wedding. But I do. And I don’t like it. I also know I can’t say no. I mean, of course I could say no, but for all the game that I talk, I’m unfortunately not as badass as I try to make people think I am. Frankly, I’m a pussy. There’s no way I can say no.
