Page 7 of Hooked on Trouble

Shay turns the bottle toward me, and I salivate. Last time I had the Penfolds Shiraz was at her going-away party, along with several blue shots and an obscene number of cupcakes.

“It is,” she says. “Tonight’s a celebration.”

I sip the deep purple wine, thankful my friends can afford the steep price, and I savor the spice and pepper that coats my palate. “If I get to drink this, I’m happy to pass on dinner. And what are we celebrating? My stolen wallet and potential identity theft?”

“That kid better hope he never sees me again,” Shay says, practically snarling. “But tonight is a fresh start, which includes celebrating our new business. And don’t even joke about skipping dinner. The charcuterie here is ridiculous.”

“The business is all she talks about.” Pride sparkles in Kolton’s brown eyes. “She’s even claimed the office in the basement as your headquarters. And—”

“I’ve thought of a name,” Shay interrupts, talking over him.

Lily squeals. “Let’s hear it.”

“Three Hot Chicks Do Vancouver.” Sawyer’s usual humor earns him a glare from each of us. “What? If you slap your pictures on a brochure, every dude in the city will be calling for your services.”

I reach in front of Lily and punch his shoulder. “It’s an event business, asshole. Not an escort service. I’m pretty sure you don’t want a bunch of sleazy men propositioning Lily.”

He slides his hand up her thigh. “Only this sleazy guy gets to solicit my girl.”

Blushing, Lily plays with the ring on her necklace, her newest tic. If she’s not picking her cuticles or chewing her nails, she’s twisting Sawyer’s promise ring in circles. Better that than falling into her old patterns—shopping to calm her nerves. If I had to guess, that ring is what has her tangled in knots. To say yes to Sawyer’s proposal, or not. To trust he won’t be a coward and hurt her again, or not. The way he’s looking at her now—stars in his eyes, one hand on her thigh, the other at the back of her neck, playing with her white-blond hair—he seems intent on proving his love. If he’s not, I’ll go for the jugular.

“Ignore him,” Lily says, still fiddling with the ring. “Let’s hear the name.”

Shay holds up her hands as if silencing a crowd. “Painted Heart Events.”

I almost snort out my wine. “Are you serious?”

Lily drops her head forward. “The humiliation.”

“What am I missing?” Sawyer squints at us.

Shay leans back, pleased with herself. “When we were in high school, we spent a night at a friend’s ski chalet and got drunk.”

“Annihilated,” I cut in. “Someone spiked our vodka with vodka.”

Lily sinks lower on her seat. “Please don’t say any more.”

“No, please do.” Sawyer leans closer, as though he’s about to be told the Caramilk Secret.

Unable to contain herself, Shay beams. “Our sweet Lily danced around the room in her bra and underwear, and although none of us can hold a tune, we formed a girl band. We called ourselves the Painted Hearts.”

God, that night. Growing up in a small town north of Toronto, everyone knew everyone, which meant getting served underage was a no-go. On the evening in question Shay’s brother smuggled us booze, and umpteen shots later, we had smudged black eyeliner under our eyes. Shay set up pots and pans and smashed away on them with a wooden spoon. Lily found a recorder and screeched out notes that could shatter glass. I, of course, played air guitar, hopping around the room like the lead singer of the Slits, head banging to my imagined punk tunes.

We were horrible.

I grin at the memory. “As much as I loved our band, the heart part makes it sound too wedding specific. But whatever we choose, we could use that picture of us in our underwear and ski boots for the logo.”

Lily drops her forehead to the table, and Sawyer rubs her back. “If all it takes is some vodka to get you ladies skiing in your lingerie, then we need to book another ski trip.”

Ignoring him, Shay says, “My second choice is Over the Top Events. Less personal, but it gets the point across.”

Now that name works. “Catchy. I love it.”

Lily lifts her head from the table. “It’s actually pretty perfect.”

Kolton drums his fingers on the table, each tap timed to the hipster music strumming from the speakers. “Can we get back to that ski trip talk? How about Whistler next winter?” He nudges Shay’s side. “I’ll give you lessons first. Make sure you know how to merge onto a run so you don’t cut off any skiers.”

I settle into my chair, waiting for Shay to unleash her inner Mike Tyson. Kolton knows she can ski circles around him. He also knows she’ll never admit it was her fault when the two collided on Aspen Mountain. But he loves pushing her buttons, and she loves rising to the bait.