Page 1 of Apparently, I’m A B!tch

Prologue

FOUR MONTHS AGO

Nikki

Saturday morning

Was I a bitch?

I didn’t think so. I really didn’t.

People called me one every now and then, but that didn’t make it true.

I was definitely a lot of things, but I wasn’t a bitch.

It was a fact I was pretty sure of until the morning Tristan dragged me into our old coffee shop, and I looked around at the black paint, gray booths, and marble tabletops with drooping shoulders.

“But it was perfect before. This is… it’s ruined.”

Tristan turned to me, his dark eyes wide with hurt. “Nikki, I didn’t ruin it. It’s my shop, and it needed–”

“Needed what?” I interrupted, keeping my hands on my hips to stop myself from shaking his broad shoulders. “It needed to look like a family of penguins died in here? It’s so dark and cold you’d think we were in the back of a freezer.”

“But I hung art–”

“Tristan, these aren’t art. These are generic wall-fillers, and they don’t belong at Henry’s.”

I should’ve stopped. I should’ve known I’d gone too far. The look on his disappointed face should’ve snapped my jaw shut. But as his throat worked, I twisted the knife deeper.

“You’ve even changed the color of the booths, Tristan! What was wrong with the way they were before?”

Lilly piped up behind me, mop in hand. “They were cracked, Nikki. After years of customer’s sliding in and out of them they needed reupholstering, you know that.”

I gestured toward the rows of tables, chairs and booths. “Okay, yes. But why change the color? Lil, look at this place. You can’t tell me you like any of this.”

Her glance flitted to Tristan, then back to me. “I love his paintings. We don’t usually get to see Tristy’s work, and I think it’s great that he decided it’s time to hang them somewhere people can appreciate them.”

Shit.

His paintings… hung on his walls. After years of being secretive and shy about his art, Tristan finally decided to showcase his work, and what did I do? I insulted them without taking a decent look. Why did I do that? Because I was mad he bought Uncle Henry’s coffee shop out from under me, named it Extra Shot and changed every single homey thing about it?

I should’ve backpedaled and apologized. If I could go back in time, I swear that’s what I would’ve done.

Instead, I looked up at him and huffed, “I’m your best friend, and you couldn’t tell me you bought this place and renovated it? Or that you hung your paintings in here?”

My whole body flushed at how wrong all this felt. By now, he would’ve done something to stem my irritation. He would’ve said something to make me laugh, and I would’ve stopped this stupid rant.

But he didn’t. I stepped closer to him, putting every bit of outrage into my voice as I could, ignoring the flustering heat that spread itself across my chest, neck and cheeks.

“I’m always honest with you, Tristan. Always! Why do you keep things like this from me?”

I stomped out before I could hurt him any more than I already had.

That’s what I did four months ago, and that kind of thing was pretty “on brand” for me.

Apparently, I’m a bitch… and even my best friend wasn’t safe from me.