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Emma: LUCY! I’m going to kill you if you aren’t already laying in a ditch dead somewhere. Not that I want you laying in a ditch. I just want to hear about your orgasms.
Briar: I was worried about you so I called Emma. She said I should call you myself, but you didn’t answer. What’s the deal?
Emma: If you don’t answer me I’m going to tell Briar. Then what?
Emma: It’s happening in Three…
Emma: Two…
Emma: Last chance.
Emma: One.
Briar: Oh em gee! I can’t believe it.
Briar: I mean… good for you! *hand clap emoji*
Emma: Oh wait… you’re in your meeting. Oops! Sorry.
Emma: Call when you’re done and fill me in on the meeting and the orgasms! Love you!! Good luck!
Briar: I reminded Emma you were in your meeting. You’re welcome.
And then I hear someone say, “Sunny,” and when the waiter steps out of the way, I see a tall, striking man standing there, and my heart doesn’t just skip a beat—it stops.
“Mr. Penthouse?” I let my secret nickname for him slip.
“It’s Beau Montgomery, actually,” he says with a curt nod as the waiter arrives with another cup, placing it in front of him and pouring his coffee. The silence stretches for several beats while I figure out what to say, unable to meet his gaze. Because shock, humiliation, and hurt are fighting for first prize while he looks at me like he’s sorry to be sharing a table with me.
Except for the dark smudges under his eyes, he looks even better than last night, his crisp black shirt stretched taut over his chest.
Focus.
“I’m sorry. This is so awkward. I’m supposed to be meeting someone.” I confront the man who worshipped my body like a temple the night before.
He just sits back smugly, unaffected, sipping his black coffee and waiting for me to piece it all together. “Me too. A blushing bride-to-be.” It’s impossible to ignore the disdain directed at me.
Blissful Bride.
The magazine.
Beau Montgomery.
“You’re the editor in chief?”
“The one and the same,” he replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And you must be Miss Landers, I presume? Or should I say soon-to-be Mrs.?” he bites out through gritted teeth.
“It’s still Miss. And yes, I’m Lucy Landers.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Your first name really doesn’t matter to me. It’s the fact that you will soon be changing your last name that’s more of a problem.”
My last name won’t be changing anytime soon. But how can I admit that without losing the feature?
“If omission is a lie, then I’m not the only one who’s guilty.”
“No names,” he throws back at me.
