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Alisha and I are Facebook friends now. She sells makeup and special probiotics for a living.
Facebook friends who become MLM sellers are like vegans: you never, ever have to ask them about it because you damn well know.
Will’s body tenses with her words. So it’s not just me. He squeezes my shoulder with a possessiveness that makes me want to cry tears of joy. “Actually, she works for me. Head designer,” he says, amusement tinging his words, his low rumble making me relax. He finds her stupid, too.
Good.
“You design heads? For what?” She does a double take at my date. “Wait–is that you? WILL!” she squeals, flinging herself at him like he’s a river and she’s on a bridge, attached to a bungee cord harness. Kissing his cheek with an audible smack designed to make people look, she leaves a bright red mark on him.
Like she’s claiming territory.
He moves away from her and wraps his arm around my waist. I find the ever-present pack of tissues in my purse and hand him one. It takes everything in me not to give her a wolf smile.
“Hi, Allison,” he says, wiping his face.
Her eyes widen. At least, as much as they can. Are we really doing Botox at twenty-eight now?
“It’s Alisha.”
“Oh. Right.” Carefully cultivated social skills I do not possess fill the space between the three of us, Will obviously a master at whatever strange game we’re all playing.
Perfect eyes with long eyelashes too beautiful to be natural bounce between us, her gaze resting on Will’s hand on my hip. “You two?” If her eyebrows could lift, they would.
He grins. It’s so natural. A shrug and a tighter squeeze are his entire answer.
Alisha’s fingers twitch, moving for her purse, like she needs to text. As if texting about the unreal experience of seeing Will with me is her oxygen.
“I can’t believe it!”
Neither can I.
“Wow! After that whole porn thing? Really, Will?” Punctuating her words, she points to her phone screen, which has the picture of me, Beastman and Will the Dom on it.
No, really, that’s the caption: Beastman and Unnamed Dom Spit Roasting.
Reproach fills her voice, but I know it has nothing to do with the porn-set misunderstanding. Will’s not breaking any social codes there.
It’s me.
I’m the violation.
Will kisses my temple and looks at her with a smile.
“Who would have ever guessed Little Miss Perfect and Will would end up together?” she says, deflating me on the spot.
There’s that name again. Little Miss Perfect. The past comes roaring back.
His hold on me tightens. One of my eyebrows is practically on Mars as I tip my head up for an explanation.
Which is interrupted.
“MALLORY AND WILL! OMIGOD!” screams Perky, running across the country club’s event space in high heels like toothpicks, dressed in a sleek red cocktail dress that makes her look even perkier than she really is while pulling off an intoxicating sophistication that makes my classic little black dress seem like a nun’s habit.
“Persephone,” I gasp, knowing she’ll appreciate the use of her full name.
Exuding excitement, she gives me a hug, jumping up and down as she whispers, “Screw them all, Mallory. You’re here with Will Lotham and they don’t know what to do with that fact inside their little minds made of tiny boxes.”
“You are the best,” I murmur into her coconut-scented, overly styled hair. There’s so much product in there I’m pretty sure it doubles as a hamster habitrail.
