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Normally, Vale is an homage to Wednesday Addams or any naughty schoolgirl look. It’s ironic because she really is a schoolgirl—well, a grown woman about to earn her PhD from Emory, so she does it all tongue-in-cheek.
But now?
“You look like a New York City socialite. What is that?” I press my face closer to the phone. “Chanel?”
“How do you know Chanel?”
“Because,” I scoff, “I got champagne taste on a box of wine budget. That’s a couture bouclé Chanel jacket, and it’s pink! What the hell? I’m gone for three days, and you’ve moved to the Upper East Side. I swear, if you have an ankle-biter yipping dog in your Birkin bag, too, I’m having you committed.”
“I have a meeting tonight,” she explains as if I didn’t notice that her hair, usually in long black, braided pigtails, is twisted up in an elegant chignon.
“Who are you meeting? Anna Wintour? The President of France?”
Thankfully, I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed because I’m about to pass out. My world keeps flipping.
“No,” she chews her lip, “I’m meeting with Nash.”
“Who?”
“Nash.” I stare until she blurts, “Mr. Allen! Nash Allen!”
“My god, he has a first name?” I fall back, laughing on the bed, holding my phone up. “What are you? Getting audited by our accountant, Mr. Nash Allen?”
“Noooo.”
The way Vale slowly answers, hurry, someone stamp GUILTY AF on her forehead.
“Vaaallleee,” I drawl, suspicious AF, too. “What’s going on? You’re not eloping with your best friend’s dad or some shit like that. Because I’m your maid-of-honor no matter how fucked up the union.”
“We’re not eloping, you naked nosy ho. It’s a meeting. That’s it. Quit asking questions I won’t answer.”
“Quit saying you have a meeting with Mr. Allen when I know you’re fucking him and someone else tonight. Probably Tarzan with the way y’all ripped the sex swing from the ceiling at Delta’s.”
She smirks. Her lips, which are usually a dramatic, tempting burgundy, are now a conservative, classic nude.
Yep, that’s the color of corruption.
And we share DNA. My nasty-for-the-night alarm is sounding, proud slut lights flashing.
“I may be up to something tonight,” she answers, “but you’re the one down for a double-header vacay in the tropics.”
“Wrong sport,” I reply, “but right location and yes, I’m in triple deep.”
“With the NFL’s number one quarterback, its leading wide receiver, and his influencer girlfriend, Amber Kostas? Those two beef sticks? Yes, they’re hella hot. But her? I never saw her as your type.”
“She’s not,” I answer. “I’d pick a sweaty wedgie over her. I swear I was gonna stab her with brow scissors before Beau stopped me. But thankfully, Colt broke up with her. Amber didn’t make it twenty-four hours without Instagram, so she’s gone.”
“Beau.” Vale nods. “And now Colt, too? Mm-hmm. Someone sounds very cozy, twice over, for a fake girlfriend.”
“Exactly,” I confess. “There’s nothing fake about this. It’s getting real intense, real fast, and… ”
I pause, remembering how Beau kissed me before he ran after Colt.
I wasn’t mad. I urged him to do it. It felt like we could lose something before we had it. Then I heard their shouts. I heard Colt tell Beau he loved him and was falling for me, too.
I didn’t want to be nosy, so I’ve been hiding in my bedroom, trying to give them the privacy they need, but something keeps bothering me.
“What’s wrong?” And Vale can sense it.
