She forces a swallow. “Tell me what?”
“Hmm, yeah, so, let’s just say after a couple of old-fashioneds bestie lips are as loose as, well, you.” He scoops up the avocado, sidles next to her, and rests it in her hand. “One night shouldn’t change everything. But you let it. You encouraged it. Full throttle, no hesitation. Whatever—whoever—else involved be damned. But for the record, no matter what that hideous thing on your desk says, he wasn’t positive. He still isn’t.”
Ilena’s legs go wobbly.
“But he’s a better person than either of us because you’re here and I’m still sharing a studio with a Berklee student who has a limited conception of hygiene.”
The acrid scent of something burning seeps out of the oven.
James strolls past her, and something he said registers. Ilena grabs his arm. “You said ‘mini me.’”
He smiles, but in that way of an animated doll about to slash your throat. “It’s a girl.”
“But Felix said the envelope was sealed.”
James winces. “Ooh, yeah, well, Felix lies. Maybe most of all, to himself.”
31
Mallory
Sunday Evening
Three DaysAfterthe Outing
Fuckity fuck fuck.
That night in the bar, the woman Ethan had been about to cheat on Aubrey with... Christ.Ilena.This can’t be happening, but so much is happening that shouldn’t be happening.
The Shandy Shane Showfilming in her condo.
Officer Middlebury and her menacing sunglasses.
Calendar reminders for “pheromone speed dating.”
Grayson’s porcupine hair.
Nut crackers, nut crackers, nut crackers!
Her father. Her fuckingfather.
And Ethan. Ethan Sonders, repeating on them like too many jalapeños.
Not to mention that goddamn emerald ring on Ilena’s finger.
James retakes his seat just as the smell of smoke wafts over the table. Felix stands.
“No,” Mallory says, her gut swirling with panic and fear and disbelief. “This is actually my territory. I’m an expert when things go wrong.”
Mallory quickly gets up, feeling the lewd intensity of Ethan’s eyes on her, hearing hisYou can’t pluck feathers from a bald chicken.
Again, hearing it again.
She slides the kitchen’s pocket door closed behind her. “What the hell, Ilena?” Mallory says, keeping her voice low.
Ilena stares at a tray of smoldering ramekins. “These were white chocolate.” She floats an oven-mitted hand above the dishes whose tops are as black as asphalt. “Not that you can tell.”
“Dessert? We’re talking about dessert?”
