“I don’t need a damn wedding planner!”
“Of course you do. I’m not going to be much help, and you’re probably going to leave everything till the last minute. And as it is, you barely have two weeks.” She’s scooping up more orange gloop and making happy noises as she devours it. It’s revolting. I make a note to never fall pregnant.
“Don’t remind me. Two weeks… Shit!”
“Don’t stress. I found some guy called Antoine, who’s apparently a genius. He’ll be here any minute. And he’s bringing the flower guy.”
“Flowers?”
“I promise these ones aren’t dead.”
I stifle a shudder. My best friend is remarkably relaxed for someone talking about a death threat. Though I guess the threat was aimed at me.
“I don’t need flowers,” I say. “This wedding is a sham. I’m only marrying him to get rid of that pig.”
Liar.
“Really?” Nikki’s spoon of butternut pauses, suspended.
“Yeah. Really.” I stare into my glass. If I meet her eyes, she’s going to call me out.
“Whatever. It’s going to be a beautiful day, no matter how much you try to pretend you don’t want to do this.”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“Stop arguing and drink your champagne.” She glances at a brand-new Rolex on her wrist. “Antoine is due at 3, and if he’s as good as they say he is, he’ll be here right…now!”
The intercom buzzes on cue.
“Voila.” She beams at me. “Now quit sulking and try to enjoy it all. Because we need to practice this for when it’s my turn to tie the knot.”
Before I can object, she’s on her feet and moving to the door. There’s a murmur of voices in the hallway, and then one of our tribe of meatheads opens it.
“Miz Love,” he rumbles. “There’s a—”
“Where is my bride!” a sing-song voice interrupts him. And then a man dressed entirely in apricot, complete with flowing scarf, dances into the room.
Oh boy.
There’s no way out of this now.
Chapter 13
Andy Carter
Idon’t want to admit it, but the apartment is empty without him. It’s been days since he left, and apart from one brief call where the sound of his voice almost had me creaming my panties, I’ve barely heard from him. A daily text has checked in to make sure that there have been no security issues, but aside from that…nada. It’s like all that we had never existed.
I’ve gone through his closet, sniffing his clothes in hopes of catching the scent of him. Last night, I spent an hour trying to bring myself off while clutching one of his worn t-shirts to my face.
“You’re pathetic, Andrea Carter,” I mutter at myself as I pass my image in the gleaming surface of the oven door in the kitchen. In fact, everything gleams in the kitchen. Each appliance is carefully chosen, the expensive cutlery set is perfectly packed in its pristine drawer. The knives are Michelin-chef quality and honed to razor sharpness. Everything in its place. Everything meticulously cared for. A reflection of the man who owns this place. It’s a quality I find enthralling…and I hate it.
I want to find something wrong with him.
So far, nothing’s come up. An exploration of the bookshelf I discovered on the upper level of his apartment revealed reading tastes that left me reeling. Sure, there’d been a couple of regular “guy” novels – spy thrillers and war stories. But then there was more. Science and medical journals that would have been appropriate for my own medical studies. Books on law. Astronomy and stars. A well-thumbed volume of poetry. Who the hell reads poetry?
Geeks, that’s who!
And Mateo freaking Ricci. Who’s the least geeky human I’ve ever encountered. He reads love sonnets and I’m smitten. Just what kind of guy am I falling for here?
