Whenever we talk, he’s quick to say “hi” to her, listening to Maria vent about working with the destination wedding brides who demand theDevil Wears Pradaexperience. Whatever that is.
I’m not as attentive. Conversations centered around marriage usually end in a bad case of mental hives for me, much to my mother’s chagrin. How anyone is well-adjusted enough to shoulder someone else’s life and burdens, or vice versa, is beyond me.
“Oh, there he is.” Maria points ahead.
Scanning the area for Eli, I mindlessly sidestep tourists, pedestrians, and puddles. “I don’t—oof,pardon.” My shoulder digs into the side of a tall-statured businessman talking on his phone, and I stumble, detaching myself from Maria.
A strong hand grips my shoulder, righting my stance before I topple to the ground.
“Easy there, Peaches,” a rough baritone voice says behind me.
A nostalgic shiver terrorizes my spine. Only one person calls mePeaches.
The person who beheaded my American Girl doll.
Cut my hair.
Spread rumors that left me dateless for dances.
Convinced our entire high school to call me “Toots” after an unfortunate period-induced bout of gas plagued me in AP chemistry. Even thoughhestill referred to me by his own personal pet name.
Used the charm that oozed out of his every pore to his advantage and my constant detriment.
And took advantage of my traitorous body’s attraction to him to break my heart on multiple occasions.
The bane of my existence.
Salt in the wound.
Liam Kelly.
“What—” I stammer, pivoting to face the lifelong building brick under my very bare feet. The gold flecks in Liam’s eyes sparkle like they have a thousand times meeting mine, and any sense of coherent thought is arrested under his bewitching stare. Once out of self-preservation, I’d built up an immunity to it, but after years in its absence, I fear that judging by my increasing heart rate and tightened airways, I’m severely out of antibodies.
“Hey, there,” he says cheerily, like we’re long-lost pals and not bitter enemies. Although, itwouldbe easier to overcome past transgressions as the instigator and not the injured party. A soft smile spreads across his face and dimples his cheeks, hidden under a neat layer of scruff shadowing his high cheekbones.
“Uhm. Hi.” I blink. This isn’t real. He’s not in Paris. He’s on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean where he belongs. I try to say more, but the rush of emotions spiraling inside has rendered my verbal capacities useless, so my mouth waffles between various intervals of open instead.
He raises one of his brows in a slow arch. “You okay?”
Old decrepit butterflies—who never minded their own freaking business—shake dust off their wings, waking from their six-year hibernation, and flutter around at a dizzying, alarming speed. There’s a strong chance I could be wrecked by Liam if I stay any longer, willingly joining some odd cult where I bow to his every whim and listen to his demands to give up bread or something.
Can’t risk that.
“Nope!” I declare emphatically, deciding this isn’t a reality I want to acknowledge.
“Nope?” His smile falters. “You’re not okay?”
“No. I’m fine, but this—” I shake a trembling finger at him. “Nope. Nu-uh. No way. This isn’t happening. Whatever sneak attack you have planned, I’m not dealing with it. Not today, Satan. Not. To. Day.” Words lodged in my throat minutes ago fall out of me at an embarrassing speed.
“I don’t—” Liam’s eyes narrow in confusion, pinning me in my spot. My pulse quickens under the heightened attention. But then he lifts his gaze over my shoulder. A dark cloud shrouds his features in a thunderous cover. “What the hell, Blythe? You said she wanted to see me, but you didn’t tell her, did you?”
My head snaps around to catch the culprit. A guilty Eli Blythe waits next to Maria, mouthing sorry.
Coworker. My. Ass.
“Look, Evie, this isn’t what it looks like.” Liam reaches for me, his fingers brushing against my arm, jolts shooting up from the contact.
“Nope. I can’t—” I toss my hands up in surrender. “I’ll—I’ll deal with you later. Excuse me.”
