“When it does that, it’s usually bad news.”
“Not this time.” She taps the table with one finger. “Are you going to Betty’s wedding?”
The shift catches me off guard. “What?”
“This Saturday. Anita, my new friend in town that I was telling you about, who hooked up with the Wilde Charters guys.Well, she hasn’t stopped talking about it. One of her Alphas is friends with the groom, so they’re going.”
I shake my head. “Oh, you didn’t tell me that part.”
Her whole face softens into the grin she reserves for truly exceptional gossip. “Her scent mates. All four. It’s a story I need to tell you when we have more time, but basically, she arrived in town dressed as a man so she could get a job in their business to spy on them or something.”
“Wow!”
“Deepened her voice, bound herself, applied as a male Beta.”
“How did she go from faking being a guy to being with all four of them? I have so many questions.”
“Next girls’ catch-up. I’ll get her to tell the whole story. Your place?”
“Soon, I promise.”
“Good. Because I need to see this neighbor situation in person.” She straightens. “Now. The wedding.”
“What about it?”
“Invite him.”
“No.”
“Invite Brody to the wedding as your date.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Listen.” She bats her hand between us. “First, you are responding to his obvious, undeniable, dough-slapping invitation, because you can’t let this Alpha slip away. Second, you turn up with that man on your arm and Louis will die. He’ll see you walk in with that hunk, and he will crumble into dust. And then when Louis comes crawling back, you send him right back to the ditch he slithered out of. With a smile.”
“Nina, I barely know the guy. And you know how hard it is for me to put myself out there. I can’t walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, wanna be my fake date at a wedding where my ex will be staring at me?’?”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll die. They’ll find my glasses and nothing else.”
“Okay.” Nina tucks the loose hair behind her ear, sits up straight, and clears her throat. “Let me show you how this goes.”
“Hey, Brody.” She drops her voice, soft and breathy, adding shy eyes, clasped hands, and the posture of a tragic Victorian orphan about to ask for soup. “So I was wondering, and you can totally say no, but would you maybe?—”
“I don’t sound that pathetic.”
She holds up a finger, switches roles, lowers her chin, squares her shoulders. “Claire. I thought you’d never ask.” Her voice goes deep and growly.
I’m laughing at her antics.
“Oh! Really? Because it’s a wedding. With my ex. And my entire family. And there might be a chicken dance.” She’s already switched back. Soft voice, wide eyes, hands pressed to her chest.
She switches again, leaning back with one arm draped over the invisible back of the chair like she owns the café, the town, and possibly my ovaries. “Sweetheart, I’d fight your ex and do the chicken dance. At the same time.”
I can’t stop giggling.
Lip bite. Then she slides one hand to her shoulder, pushes an imaginary sleeve off the edge with agonizing slowness, tilts her chin down, and blinks up through her lashes like she’s trying to seduce a fireplace.
