Page 53 of Everything But Mine

I’m your date, aren’t I?

Val clears her throat, glancing sideways at me before smoothing her fingers over the steering wheel. “Do you think—never mind.”

My phone keeps buzzing, but her voice carries an uneven tenor that catches me off guard. “Come on, Val. You can ask.”

She sighs, deep and long. “Do you think that dress makes me look more passionate?”

I have to work to stifle a laugh. “Passionate?”

She nods, uncertain. “I don’t want to pick something that makes me seem cold and distant.” One hand drifts to her chest, smoothing her blouse with the same movement she did when she tried on the dress. “It’s Vivienne Westwood. It was on sale.”

I cross my arms. “You’re buying Vivienne Westwood for a wedding you keep mocking?”

She keeps her eyes on the road. “Yeah, well, we’re all going, so I just don’t want to disappoint.”

“I don’t know. Red satin and public appearances feel like a lot of commitment.”

She smirks faintly. “Maybe I just wanted to remind your loud friend that I clean up extremely well.”

“Diego?”

She nods. It’s more than she’s said before, but I know that tone—half-deflection, half-dare. So rather than intruding, I support her.

“You looked amazing,” I say instead.

Val nods, accepting it like a fact she already knew. “Good. We’ll both look terrifyingly hot.”

I glance out the window as she takes a left turn so sharply she nearly drives on the curb. We’re headed back to the home I share with Eric, more home than the apartment I shared with Daray ever felt.

I’m about to text Eric when⁠—

“I still don’t have your abstract for my conference,” Val says casually.

I sigh. Not this again.

“It’s in mid-July, so I have some time,” she continues, merging too fast and cutting off a minivan. “But I need it soon.”

“Val,” I say, bracing myself. “It might not have registered with you, but I’ve been a little busy.”

“I am short on submissions, Mandy,” she says, flicking her signal one way before abruptly switching lanes in the other. Horns erupt behind us. “You have three studies worth presenting.”

“I don’t want the stress. I’ll attend. I’ll go to the dinners. I’ll schmooze. I just don’t want to present.”

She huffs, then says, “I did receive an interesting submission.”

I side-eye her. “Do tell.”

“Dr. Simone Esposito.”

She lets the name hang between us, thick as fog.

“Simone applied for your conference?”

“Indeed, he did.” Her smile turns sharp, predatory. I am a mouse she hasn’t decided if she should kill.

I bite my lip. “You’re inviting him?”

“It’s a good paper,” she says, tapping the brakes as a cyclist veers into our lane. “Your Simo is a solid international name. I can’t blacklist him because you two have history in Milan.”