“If this woman is so important, why didn’t you place a reminder call?”
“We believed it was unnecessary. They were coming the next day.”
This upsets me even more. I’m raging. Can I cancel my dinner with her and her husband’s friends?
I want to buy two dozen cronuts and binge-watch Schitt’s Creek. The second option is heading to visit my bestie and drinking a bottle of tequila with her. That’s a no since she can’t drink—or stay up too late. Plus, she has that stupid dinner with her friends.
This is definitely another reason for me to pack and leave.
“You can make it for another few months, can’t you?”
Holly knows me too well.
“I said I’d be here for you. Once the baby is ready to rub your feet, I’ll leave,” I joke.
“Olivia.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re hurt,” she insists. “When this happens, you like to escape.”
She’s confusing me with Mom, who tends to move on to a new house, a new town, or a new country after a breakup or a divorce. So, I don’t have a plan on what to do next. It’s because of the circumstances. First, it was my parents exchanging me every year. Then, it was college, grad school, work… Just when I thought I might be settling in San Francisco, here I am, in Colorado helping her.
“He’s nothing to me, okay. My pride is bruised.” I shrug one shoulder and give her a tight smile. “Ultimately, I’m not the one marrying a cheater.”
“Just don’t pack and leave without telling me,” she requests. “At least call if you need to talk to me.”
I stare at the frame she has on her desk. It’s a collage with pictures of her wedding day, her puppy, and her husband. Another one of them in front of their current place. It’s the image of someone who figured out her life at an early age and followed her dreams.
“You’ll get my call, even if it’s after midnight. I promise. Now, turn off the computer and head home.”
“We’ll see you tonight, right?”
I nod.
I head to pick up my stuff and leave. I don’t have time to deal with men or Eros Brown’s memory—or whatever his real name is.
Chapter Thirty-One
Eros
I’m usually a laid-back person. Seriously, I don’t give fucks about anything. I don’t care what people think about me, except a few: my family, friends, and Olivia Evelyn Sierra.
Seeing Olivia’s face while we were leaving ignites something unfamiliar. Misty grabbing my hand feels all wrong. I snatch it away from her.
“What was that?” I ask, poking the elevator button.
Her smile appears. “We’re trying to get the best wedding planner in town to organize my wedding. I wish you had stuck with the plan. You’re supposed to be Taylor Brown.”
“Olivia and I know each other,” I state, trying to control my anger.
We step into the elevator.
“It’s a small favor. I’ve done a lot for you.”
“Was I supposed to fake amnesia?”
She tilts her head to one side. “She barely remembered you or your name. I think your ego is bruised. That’s why you’re upset.”
This has nothing to do with my ego. It’s Olivia who I’m concerned about. The air crackles around us when we’re close. This time it wasn’t because of the chemistry we share. The moment Misty said we’ve been dating since freshman year of college, the atmosphere changed. The sizzle was pure rage.
She thinks I’m a fucking cheater. That I slept with her while I had a girlfriend. I told her once that I don’t lie. Yet, here I am, looking like the biggest fucking liar.
“You caught me off guard,” I argue. “Why didn’t you bring your fiancé with you?”
She shoots me a defiant look. “Why do I feel like you and the wedding planner have a history?”
“We met a few years ago. I happen to come across her from time to time,” I explain loosely.
Olivia is hard to define. I’m not just talking about our relationship. She’s complicated in her own way. God, I want to go back and explain to her that everything that Misty said was a big fat lie. I’ve never been with Misty—I’m not sure if she’s going to believe me.
“It doesn’t matter. I just want to make sure she’s the right person for me. I’m not impressed, though. It felt like she wanted us out of the room.”
“So, explain to me how you are going to justify my presence when you hire them?”
She sighs. “This might get messy.”
“It could’ve been simple. Why the charade?”
“I want to make sure they’re going to treat me right no matter who I am,” she states. “Being Richard Prince’s fiancée is weird. I bet if she knew who I am, she’d have treated me like a princess. It’s hard to be part of that family. You never know who is friendly because of your position and who is a friend.”
Yes, if she didn’t think I’m a fucking cheater, she’d have been nicer to you.
This could be the moment when I tell her that Richard is not the man for her. I should just sit her down now and get everything off my chest before she continues with this charade. But what is it that I want to tell her? That I’m fucking angry because she hurt Liv.
“If being with him is such a problem, why are you back with him?”
“I love Richard.”
“He’s not going to stop being Richard Prince,” I remind her. “You’ll become Misty Prince. Your kids will be part of the family that everyone judges.”
“Once we’re married, things will be different,” she states.
“You should talk to Persy about this,” I suggest. “It sounds like you want to marry, but you have different expectations.”
She huffs. “We’re not discussing that part of my relationship. What do you know about love? You can’t even commit to a paper clip.”
“I don’t use paper clips—or paper. Go green. It saves trees.”
That’s all I say because she’s slightly right. I have never committed to anyone. It’s not the lack of wanting but my shitty luck. Liv never wanted more than those moments we happened to coincide in the same space. What was I supposed to do? The one time I tried to move on—well, here we are.
“The bottom line is that we’re getting married. My mother-in-law wants the best for her son. It’s obvious that I have to hire them.”
“Again, why didn’t you bring him?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s complicated. What do you think?”
That you’re making a mistake. “When did you and Prince get back together?”
“You’re going to think it is too corny,” she answers, tapping her phone and smiling.
“I have an extremely corny sister who gives cheesy advice to whoever listens to her podcast,” I remind her as we get into the car.
“How is Persy doing?” she asks, putting on her seatbelt.
I start the engine, turn my attention toward her for a moment, and state, “You’re changing the subject.”