I hopped off the barstool, already knowing this was a losing battle. But I wasn’t easily bullied. Bill played his role of mediator well, and I wondered if he’d ever been trained in mock trial. Eventually, after I dug my heels in and declared I would rather go to the courthouse, Carole relented. No Europe. Which meant I had to cave to the suggestion of Martha’s Vineyard.
“He’s peeing on my sofa,” I groaned, watching the pencil stick leg lift and a tiny stream of yellow stained the edge of the couch. “Carole! The furniture.”
“Oh, nonsense, he’s fine,” she snapped and turned her attention back to designer gowns.
I glared at Chandler, promising to feed him to a hawk, while his mommy whined that none of the red-carpet brands had openings for her mother-of-the-bride dress. Again, Bill worked his magic, offering her an appointment at an exclusive, highly sought-after couture brand with whom he had a favor.
“I’ll use it to have your daughter fitted tomorrow morning,” he promised.
They didn’t leave until after seven. And that was only because Carole had dinner plans with a tycoon’s third wife. I locked the door and sagged against the barrier.
“I need five minutes,” I protested.
My inner competitive driver didn’t argue.
Trudging to the sofa, with the drying pee stain on the front side, I nearly stepped on a brown, smelly present the puffball left on the floor. I let out an angry groan and jumped over the mess, falling into the cushions.
Maybe I would take up fishing. Chandler would make great bait for some big ocean monster.
Closing my eyes, I started box breathing to clear my mind. I wasn’t a cruel person. I liked animals. I wished I had a furry companion of my own! But the yippy, spindly-legged rat barely counted as living. There were robotic dogs that had more sense than him.
When my blood pressure lowered, I risked a peep at my phone. There were no new messages.
There was the thread with my sister. Correspondence with coworkers. The group chat of gal-pals was bubbling out of control since it was Saturday, but the one text thread that I needed to send to the cops?
It was still gone.
“Well, you aren’t getting off that easily, mister,” I hissed.
I opened a search tab to find out how to restore deleted messages. But I stopped myself after reading the first line.
“What if….”
I couldn’t bring myself to say it. If the messages had never been there in the first place, did I want to prove that to myself? At least if I thought they existed, I wouldn’t have to face the reality that my workload was too much, my personal life too complicated, and it was all adding up into a slow, torturous mental decline. It was easier to believe there had been text messages, even if that was just the result of stress mixing fiction with reality.
Except that dream had been hot. Dangerous.Forbidden.And I’d most definitely gone swimming. Hell, I could have sleepwalked into the pool.
A shudder rolled down my spine.
Exiting out of the internet tab, I pulled up the most active group chat. These friends didn’t have regular jobs. They lived and breathed on being popular. If I hadn’t gone to the same Ivy League as half of them and pledged to the same sorority, they wouldn’t have given me the time of day.
“What’s up, bitches!” I said the words I typed out loud. “Where are we partying tonight?”
Megan: She exists!
Leah: She’s alive!
Denver: Get that fine ass over here, and let’s pregame!
I responded with some choice emojis and closed the phone. Letting my head fall back, I drew in some deep breaths. Normalcy. No work. Forget about the marriage contract. Don’t mention the stalker.
Just one night of good, drama-filled girly fun. That was exactly what I needed.
Chapter 9 – Amanda – ThePast
“It’s him!” The excited whispers flitted around the room like wasps that’d just discovered a picnic.
“The Italian Stallion,” Ivy murmured, turning in her seat.
