But she’d rather not say all that. There was no point.
Margot was just someone Olivia used to know, and now Olivia was planning her friend’s wedding. It would be in both their best interests to keep things strictly professional.
As professional as possible when she knew exactly how to touch Margot to make her babble and beg.
“How’d you meet the groom? Brendon,” Olivia asked before Margot could pry harder.
“Elle and I, we created Oh My Stars.”
“I follow you guys on Twitter.” And Instagram, too. She’d been following Oh My Stars since its inception years ago, back when Margot had still been at UW and Olivia had only just become Mrs. Brad Taylor. “You were always interested in astrology.”
The skin between Olivia’s shoulder blades itched, a memory of Margot tracing constellations into the bare skin of Olivia’s back surfacing.
Margot nodded. “We partnered with his app, OTP, a couple years ago to add astrological compatibility to their matchmaking algorithm. Brendon introduced Elle to his sister, Darcy, and he and I became friends.”
“That sounds really great, Margot.” Olivia smiled. “It sounds like everything worked out the way you wanted.”
Like all her dreams had come true. Good for her.
Margot dropped her gaze, tracing the mosaic tile floor with the toe of her boot, expression giving nothing away. Margot had always been too good at that, locking everything up, impossible to read. Olivia had tried, God, had she tried, but every time she thought she’d figured Margot out, Margot would do something to make her second-guess everything she thought she knew. Everything she believed to be certain.
“How long have you been in Seattle?” Margot asked, changing the subject.
“Since last summer.”
Not even a year.
“There you are.” Brendon poked his head inside the room and grinned. “We were wondering where you two wandered off to.”
He stepped further into the room, Annie by his side. Elle and Darcy followed.
Margot pushed off the wall, tucking her thumbs inside her front pockets. Her black denim rode lower in the front, revealing another inch of smooth, pale skin and the barest hint of black ink curving around her hip. Olivia’s mouth ran dry. That was new. “You all set?”
“Sure are. We were thinking dinner. Maybe that Indian place we like since we’re not far from Darcy and Elle’s,” Brendon said. “Olivia, you should join us.”
Olivia blinked, long and slow, forcefully tearing her eyes from that bare expanse of skin, gaze lifting and landing on Margot’s face. A knowing smirk played at the edges of Margot’s mouth. Heat rose in Olivia’s cheeks, creeping up to her hairline, her skin likely matching the color of her burgundy beanie. She swallowed hard and smiled apologetically. “I wish I could, but I should really be going. I need to email the florist and—”
“It’s nearly seven,” Annie said, looping her arm through Brendon’s. “What are the chances the florist is going to email you back?”
“Annie’s right.” Brendon smiled. “Come on. I’m sure you and Margot have plenty of catching up to do.”
She met Margot’s eyes. One of Margot’s brows rose as if daring Olivia to . . . what? Say yes? No? Olivia bit her lip. Margot was more of a mystery than ever.
Dinner. Brendon and Annie would be there, too, at the very least, as a buffer, and at the end of the day, all of this was about the two of them. Their wedding. As long as she kept that in mind, she should be fine.
“All right.” Olivia slipped the strap of her purse down her shoulder, where it caught against the crook of her elbow. She reached inside for her phone, wanting to, at the very least, set a reminder for herself to email the florist first thing in the morning. “Let me just . . .”
She’d missed a call, having set her phone to silent during the tour. Mrs. Miyata, her landlady, who lived three doors down, had left a voicemail.
Olivia bit back a sigh. Considering the time, Cat was probably kicking up a fuss. If she didn’t get her dinner by seven, she’d start yowling as if she were dying, little drama queen. Luckily, Mrs. Miyata had the spare key, so she could pop open a can of Friskies to keep the monster at bay. She’d done it before and hopefully wouldn’t mind doing it again.
“Let me just make a quick call.”
* * *
Olivia was barely out the door when Brendon zeroed in on Margot, sporting a shit-eating grin. “So.”
“So what?”
Brendon shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing minutely, studying her with intent. As if she were a puzzle he planned to solve. “Olivia seems nice.”
Great. Margot should’ve seen this coming: her friends—lovable bunch of nosy assholes that they were—giving her the third degree. Except, no. Call it kismet or fate, serendipity or just a damn coincidence, but Olivia had appeared without warning. Nothing could’ve prepared Margot for this.
“She is.” Margot crossed her arms, fighting against the urge to shift her weight from one foot to the other. “Or she was, I guess. I don’t know. A lot can change in eleven years.”
Clearly, it had. Olivia had married Brad and divorced him in that time. We just wanted different things. What a pat answer that told her nothing. It was like when celebs split over irreconcilable differences and it later turned out to because someone had cheated or their finances were fucked. Who pulled the plug? Olivia? Did it even matter?
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about high school,” Brendon said. “Not once.”
Elle nodded. “You hardly even talked about it when we were in college.”
“Because it was high school,” Margot said. “High school in Enumclaw. Not exactly riveting stuff. There’s really nothing to tell.”
Nothing she wanted to or had any intention of telling, at least.
“You know”—Brendon’s lips quirked—“when someone says there’s nothing to tell, there usually is.”
Brendon was perceptive. Sometimes a little too perceptive. His tendency to stick his nose where it didn’t belong made for a dangerous combination.
“We were friends.” Margot shrugged, throwing Brendon the smallest, least likely to bite her in the ass, of bones. “We drifted apart after high school. Plenty of people do. I went to UW and she went to WSU. End of story.”
Brendon stared, scratching his chin.
“Leave her alone, Brendon,” Darcy said, cutting in, saving Margot the hassle of having to do it herself. “If Margot doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t have to.”
Margot sighed. Finally someone who saw reason.
“Besides, have you met Margot? When have you ever known her to do something she doesn’t want to?”
Margot frowned. “I mean—”
“She’s locked up tighter than Fort Knox.” Darcy ignored her. “If Margot doesn’t want to talk about something, good luck wheedling it out of her.”
“Me?” Margot jabbed her thumb at her chest. “When have you ever known me to shy away from speaking my mind?”
And that was rich, coming from Darcy, considering how tight-lipped she’d been about her feelings for Elle at the beginning of their relationship.