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We didn’t do that, but it was tempting.
One of Dante’s old football buddies came in shortly, sat down next to him, and started catching up.
I didn’t even look at the guy. I hadn’t been friends with any of the jock douchebags in high school, and I saw no reason why I should have to waste my time on one now.
Also, just thinking about football put my mind in a dark place.
I got up without a word and left.
I couldn’t move without tripping over a server, but I went back through the kitchen and served myself another scotch.
It was starting to do its job and take the edge off. Numbness felt just around the corner.
I lingered at my moment of peace. It was just too pleasant to take a minute alone when the last thing I wanted was company, especially the company that could be found in this house at present.
“Of course you drink scotch,” a soft voice said behind me. “That’s so you. Always the guys’ girl.”
I turned to face Tiffany, tipping my glass back to pointedly finish off my drink.
Once again, I eyed her dress. It was perfect, damn her. Flawlessly tailored and obviously designer.
I wore cheap, trendy clothing, and I despised all the people there that knew the difference. She was certainly one of them.
One consolation was that my shoes were up to snuff today, at least as nice as hers, though I still had a mad shoe crush on her lavender stilletos.
We just stared at each other for a pregnant moment, and I, for one, had no clue what was going through her head.
It seemed to me that some bond should be made between two women when they’ve both had their hearts broken by the same man.
But there was no bond here. There was no person on earth I felt less of a kinship with.
It was like we didn’t even speak the same language. She was fluent in passive aggressive fake niceties. Darling is what she said as she plunged a knife into your gut.
I’d never understood it, could never relate. Passive aggressive women were beyond me. Or the passive part of it, at least.
Straight up aggression, that I understood.
I was fluent in liberal doses of painful honesty, well, at least when the subject didn’t delve too deeply into how I felt about a certain manipulative bastard.
“No guests in the kitchen,” I finally broke the silence with. Rudely.
I was feeling three-scotches-in honest, could not even try to play her fake nice game.
“Actually, I’m staying at the house.” She dropped the words on me pleasantly as she moved to the old bar I was leaning against, carelessly tossing her drop-dead gorgeous black and white clutch on it. Damn her and her amazing bag choices. “That grants me the precious kitchen access even according to Gram’s rules, right?”
I was floored. Why the hell was she staying here? Unless . . . My mind wanted to draw the worst conclusion, which was likely the truth. Of course she was doing it to get close to Dante. The only question was: How did he feel about it? Did he know? Care? Was he playing the same games with us both, drawing us in, messing with our heads?
“Why wouldn’t you stay at your parents’ house?” I asked her bluntly.
She started making herself a drink. She didn’t answer me until she’d taken a drink that made her nose scrunch up in distaste. “Renovations. Two thirds of the place is under construction. You know how my mother is.”
I didn’t. I only knew her as Adelaide’s evil counterpart. I’d never been to their house and I had no clue about her decorating choices.
“Isn’t it like a mansion? They don’t have one spare room you can use? A sofa?”
She shrugged. “It’s fine. I don’t mind staying here. I love this house. Reminds me of the good old days, spending time with Dante here when we were teenagers.”
She could have punched me in the stomach and it wouldn’t have knocked more of the wind out of me.
