Laine’s eyes widen with a jolt. “Oh fuck!” She covers her mouth and laughs. “Oh my god, I remember you now. Chop Chop, right? You’regay?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Harlow waves her hands at us. “Youknoweach other?” She hiccups out a delighted laugh. “I didn’t know you were from Blue Ridge, Laine!”
“Yeah,” Laine says slowly, beginning to grin. “Zoe dated my twin brother in high school.”
“Youwhat?” Harlow’s laughing harder, and my whole body’s turning red, which everyone can see because I’m stillnaked. “I didn’t think you had a straight bone in your body, Zoe Brennan!”
“It was just prom the one time, and I—ugh—you told me her name was Lina!”
“No, I definitely said Laine. You must’ve read it wrong.”
Laine suddenly stops laughing, her face going pale. “Wait. ZoeBrennan?”
There it is. She remembers who I am now, all right. All my personas have compiled. The adoring neighbor kid who stared at her like she held all the answers to every question. Rachel’s scrawny best friend. The confused drunk teen who humiliated herself in front of everyone at prom. Standing here naked, all the past versions of me that I’ve purposefully banished are pulled out on display once more in front of the perfectCharlaine Woods. I feel like the ground beneath an avalanche—breathless, cold, trapped.
“Zoe! Don’t freak out,” Harlow manages between laughs. “It’s just a funny coincidence!”
“I—I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. Big morning tomorrow!” I stammer out as I jump up and down trying to squeeze into my jeans only to realize one leg’s half turned inside out. I throw my jacket on over my topless breasts and grab my T-shirt—thanks for nothing, Stevie Nicks—and step into my black boots, not bothering to zip them up. Harlow runs after me, but my last glimpse of Laine is her sitting with her back pressed against the headboard, eyes fully spooked. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
Fuck, fuck,fuck!
CHAPTER THREE
The knocking on my cottage door feels like somebody pounding on the lid of my coffin, summoning me from the dead.
This zombie doesnotwant to rise.
I groan and roll over, curling into a ball of humanughhhhh. I couldn’t escape last night’s mortification even in my melatonin-induced coma. Dream after dream replayed the event from different angles, torturing me. The amazing sex, Laine’s horrified face, Harlow laughing while her rainbow dick swayed like a gay elephant’s trunk.
I gingerly run my hand over my bruised backside and wince. Last night literally kicked my ass.
And yet, the knocking continues. I squint at the clock—eight a.m.—and sigh. I’m usually an early riser. I love working in the morning, when my brain’s freshest and the day’s problems haven’t crowded out my creativity yet. But I took enough melatonin to bring down that gay elephant, and I feel hungover. From the sleep aid, from embarrassment, from the most mind-blowing sex of my life. I grab the water bottle by my bed and drain it. Being that thoroughly turned on dehydrates a woman.
“Zoe Brennan, are you alive in there? Why aren’t you in your office organizing your highlighters?!”
Despite everything, I smile. Hannah Tate is the only person in the world I can handle seeing right now. She’s well acquainted with feeling like a disaster and always manages to walk me back from whatever dark mood’s gripped me that day.
I hobble to the door and find her standing there, a giant three-ring binder pressed to her chest.
“Good morning,” I hoarse out as I let her in, then move into my tiny kitchen to click the electric kettle on.
“Sweet Jesus, what happened to you?” Hannah looks vaguely alarmed as she takes in my mussed hair, two-legged limp, and dead eyes. She shuts the door behind her, which is good because I’m still in my tiny Stevie Nicks T-shirt and a pair of panties. At least those are fresh.
Fresh-ish.
“Long, horrible story.” I make a cup of Darjeeling tea before throwing an extra pillow on the couch and easing my sore ass onto it. “You don’t want to hear.”
“Of course I want to hear!” Hannah tosses the binder down and sits across from me.
I frown at her. “What’s that?”
“Oh, this?” Her words peter out into a sigh. “River’s inspiration material for our Tolkienesque wedding so you can start the planning here.” She air quotesTolkienesqueas though the term’s been debated mightily.
“He’s really sticking with that, huh?”
Hannah blinks. “I thought he was joking at first, but ‘he has a vision.’” She checks her watch. “Come on, Brennan. Spill the story and make it fast. You’ve got a vineyard tour in thirty minutes.”
I let out a sigh that excavates my insides. The treehouse my cousin River built and Hannah now manages for us must’ve been booked last minute. I should be grateful for the extra revenue, but all I feel is depleted. I sip my tea, weighing the pros and cons. I don’t usually like to share personal things like this, even with Hannah. It’s not about trust or privacy—it’s just that talking about feelings always has the unfortunate side effect of making themrealto me.
