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I can’t help but smile. There’s something about the way she teases me. It warms me the way the sun used to.
I slip my cell into my pocket, fill my bottle at the nearest fountain, run the half a mile back to Venice, then the twenty blocks to my apartment.
A hot shower washes away the day, but it’s not enough.
The invitation is still sitting on my desk.
Without my contacts, it’s a blur of white and silver. An anonymous reason for celebration.
When I slide my glasses on, the words come into focus.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of Penelope Winters and Francis Hobbs.
It’s still happening.
There’s still no way I can stomach it alone.
And it’s still a terrible idea finding a fake girlfriend.
I am gonna figure this out. Somehow.
I push it aside as I pull up Leighton’s design on my laptop.
It’s perfect.
I grab my cell and shoot her a text.
Ryan: Fucking amazing.
Leighton: There’s nothing you’d change?
Ryan: Nothing.
My chest warms. It feels good, helping Leighton. Everything feels good with Leighton.
There’s no way I’m risking that.
I let the thought bounce around my brain as I prep dinner—a simple, sautéed lemon chicken.
Usually cooking calms me. But, today, it isn’t working.
Memories of Penny threaten to flood my mind. Her standing in the kitchen, in her ironic pink and white apron, joking about how she’s a perfect homemaker.
That smile as she perfected penne arrabiata.
The intense look in her honey eyes as she watched me take my first bite.
She’s been in the corner of my mind for the last year and change. She’s been a ghost in my thoughts. A watermark on a perfect photo.
There.
But easy to ignore.
Now, with that fucking invitation sitting on my desk—
A million memories of her crash together.
I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore. It echoes around the silent room.
