I should let this play out. Should stay hidden. Should let him handle it.
But then Vivienne touches his arm again, her fingers lingering, and something in me snaps.
Oh hell no.
I step out from behind the palm, adjust my sunglasses, and channel every bad Lifetime movie I've ever watched about obsessed fans.
Time to earn my keep.
"WEST!" I practically shriek it.
Both of them turn. West's eyes widen in what I can only describe as preemptive horror.
Vivienne, on the other hand, looks like she just smelled something unpleasant.
Perfect.
I speed-walk toward them—not running, becausethat would be undignified, but moving with the focused intensity of a woman on a mission.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt," I gush, not sorry at all, sliding into the seat next to West before anyone can stop me. "I just had to say hi. I've been looking everywhere for you."
"Jane." West's voice is cautious. "This is Vivienne Grant. Vivienne, this is—"
"Oh my gosh, Vivienne!" I turn my full attention on her, ignoring West completely.
Vivienne shakes my hand cautiously. "Vivienne Grant. I'm a friend of Eleanor's."
"Oh, Eleanor! West's mom! She's amazing. So elegant. So..." I wave vaguely. "Tall."
West makes a sound like he's swallowed his tongue.
I turn to him, eyes wide with manufactured enthusiasm. "Babe, I didn't know you were meeting people! I thought we were supposed to—" I lower my voice conspiratorially, loud enough for Vivienne to hear. "You know. After this morning."
Vivienne's smile tightens.
West's face is a mask of restrained panic.
"Jane—" he starts.
"No, no, it's fine!" I wave him off. "I'll just wait. I don't mind. I love watching you interact with people. It's like—" I sigh dramatically. "It's like watching poetry. Strong, athletic poetry."
Then I put on my widest smile and beam at Vivienne. "Anyways, about his mom, I hope you’re not here asking West to give up hockey too."
Vivienne's smile goes sharp. "I wouldn't say give up. More like... transition to something with more longevity."
"Right, right. Because hockey's so temporary." I wave my hand dismissively, and West's knee presses against mine under the table—warning or encouragement, I can't tell.
"I mean, I get it. All that hitting and body-slamming. It's so violent."
"Body-checking," West corrects quietly.
I ignore him. "But the thing is, Vivienne—can I call you Viv?"
"Vivienne is fine."
"The thing is, Vivienne, West is amazing at hockey. Like, truly gifted. Have you seen him play?"
"I've watched several games—"
