“You get irritated if someone doesn’t order quickly? How many dates have you ditched because of that?”
He sighs. “I don’t have time to date.”
His phone goes off again, perfectly timed to call him a liar. I raise my eyebrows, daring him to tell me again how he’s not dating. Hunter’s in his early thirties, tall, gainfully employed, and surrounded by millions of beautiful, underserved women. And ... well, there’s no denying he’s hot. Not dating? I highly doubt that.
He holds the phone up to me so I can see the screen. “It’s my mom.”
I don’t say anything. He doesn’t need to pretend he’s not dating on my account. It’s not like I care if it’s his mom calling, or Veronica with the great ass.
“What’s this?” He pulls out an image I printed from theNew England Home Magazinewebsite. It’s a selection of woven throws in seasonal colors.
“Katherine wants to have a fire on the beach and wrap up in blankets and toast marshmallows.”
“Yeah, and what’s this?” he asks, waving the image like it’s a smoking gun.
“Throws I thought I might buy for the beach.”
“You’re going to buy specific blankets? You can’t use what’s at the house? Or maybe ask people to bring their own?”
“But then the colors might not go together.”
He doesn’t respond, but he looks at me like he’s examining an exhibit in a museum. “The colors of the blankets. You think Katherine wants them to match?”
“Not match, butblend. Otherwise, the pictures we take won’t ... They won’t be ...”
“Don’t say ‘perfect,’” Hunter says. “Because if you do, I’m picking you up, tucking you under my arm, and taking you to the nearest hospital for a psych evaluation.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Me?” he says, pulling more papers from the box and dumping them onto his coffee table. “I’m the dramatic one? How long have you been planning this party?”
“What?” I say defensively. “Not long.”
He stares, daring me to confess.
“Just a few weeks,” I say in a small voice. If no one can hear me, it’s not technically lying.
“Liar,” he says.
“What? It’s just a few weeks.”
“Which brand of marshmallows have you selected for toasting?” he asks. But he doesn’t wait for a response. “Don’t deny you’ve researched it.”
“I have plausible deniability,” I say. “Why would I pick out the brand when I don’t know what will be available at the store?”
“You’d never source them locally,” he says. I feel like he’s reached inside my brain and seen every thought. He’s right. I’d never leave such a critical detail to chance.
I don’t say anything, because what’s the point? He’ll only tell me I’m a liar. And he’d be right. But it’s weird. I’ve never been called out on my attention to detail before. Certainly never been teased about it. Quite the opposite. Growing up in Katherine’s shadow, I was always seen as the messy one. Never prepared, neverright, next to Katherine’s always-prepared, always-perfect self.
“Are you only like this because it’s Katherine’s bachelorette, or is this you all the time?” He starts to chuckle. “Don’t answer that. I know that answer. I bet you were the reason the line at Stranger than Fiction came to a standstill the other day. First of all, you had to decide on your order, and then I bet they had to make it specially.”
I sigh. I didn’t come here to be picked apart. I can do that to myself easily enough. We’ve got the house. The rest I can do by myself. Katherine didn’t say anything about having to travel together.
“Why don’t you plan the meal the night we arrive? I’ll do Saturday,” I say. “You can arrange the guys’ transport. I’ll do it for us girls. Then we don’t need to plan together. You can be free of me.” I pull my mouth into a forced smile and stand, shunting the papers on the coffee table back into the box.
“You’re mad. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole.”
“You don’t need to try,” I say, sliding the lid onto the box. There’s no fight left in my tone. I can’t even be bothered to take offense.
