Thank you, Sloane Ellis.
“Did you have any idea?” Yasmin asked. “I had none. Zero. Completely, absolutely zilch.”
Aaliyah nodded. “Didn’t even cross my mind they could ever… Well, ya know. I didn’t know they knew each other that well.”
“Guess they did,” Jules muttered.
Rhys hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Wes and I will be outside your door if you need anything.”
The men wanted as little girl talk as possible.Same, Rhys. Same.She nodded, refilling her champagne flute with tap water.
Her friends tracked her movements. Their eyes bored into her like drills of curiosity. Their denials seemed truthful and their scrutiny, unwavering.
She sipped. “What?”
Yasmin raised a shoulder. Aaliyah tugged her bottom lip between her teeth.
“You don’t seem… upset?” Yasmin finally offered.
Jules’s fingers tightened around the crystal flute as the flutter of truth trilled in her chest. “How am I not upset?” She heard the octave in her voice climb.
Their big, beautiful eyes rounded. Both shrugged defensively.
“I’m angry.”I’m so alone.“He made a fool out of me.”
Mason was yet another man who’d said he loved her, and she’d believed him. That love might have been platonic, but he’d given her that promise. What had she been thinking? Love was a liability. Even when it was basically pretend. “Iamupset.”
“Of course, honey,” Yasmin said.
“I know, baby,” Aaliyah offered.
Jules had won Oscars and Golden Globes, and still, she hadn’t convinced her closest friends that she was devastated. They nodded, believing her as much as Jules believed Tabitha had volunteered to get her mother out of the goodness of her heart. “I’m—”
Rhys cracked the door. “Ice cream’s here.” He waited for her nod before letting in the catering cart.
“Where would you like this?” The uniformed man pulled the cart into the center of the large sitting area.
“Wherever.” Jules might take her ice cream to bed. No one could accuse her of not being upset if she snuggled up to a gallon of ice cream and toffee chips.
The man’s gaze swept over their clutter as he searched for the best place to park the cart. He repositioned next to the long dining table covered with makeup and hairbrushes, dirty plates, and champagne glasses. “How about over here?”
“Sure,” Yasmin said, following the cart, then called toward the bedroom, “Abs, the ice cream arrived.”
Jules dropped onto a club chair like her legs couldn’t hold her a second longer. She pressed her fingers to her temples. Was she more upset that her friends didn’t believe she was upset? Or was she actually upset? Screw it. She was pissed. That all-encompassing catch-all described everything.
“Stop.” Rhys rushed across the hotel room like he’d spotted an assassin. He slide-tackled the man against the dining table. Hairbrushes skittered. Champagne flutes crashed. “Give me the phone.”
“Damn, man. Don’t break my arm.”
At the commotion, Abigail burst into the living room, and with one look, she grabbed Jules and pulled her away, protectively tucking her onto the couch. Their fingers interlocked. Abigail’s French manicure squeezed tiny half-moons of pain into Jules’s knuckles.
The men slammed into the table again. Abigail’s nails bit deeper into her skin. A chair overturned. A makeup bag careened onto the floor, spilling bobby pins and makeup brushes like wedding prep shrapnel.
“Give me the phone,” Rhys demanded.
“You want twenty-five percent?” The other man clasped both hands over his cell phone. “I’ll cut you in. Damn it. Don’t break my arm.”
Rhys wrenched the man’s elbow back. The phone clattered to the floor. Only then did Abigail release the death grip handhold.
