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Lipstick in hand, she strode from the bathroom to the bedroom. The small, silk purse she’d chosen for tonight sat on her dresser. Hopefully Best Life had no issues with the silkworm. She opened the bag and tucked the lipstick in the inside pocket, next to her phone, noticing a waiting message in the process. A screen swipe later Booker’s voice came over the line.
I’m leaving the station now. Going to be about ten minutes late, but I’ll make it up to you. I’ve got some news you’ll appreciate.
Yeah, she had some news for him, too, but nothing he’d appreciate. And nothing she wanted to bring up over the phone or in a rushed conversation on the way to a family event. Maybe him running late worked out for the best? She’d wait until after the rehearsal dinner to tell him about…everything.
She texted him a reply.
Save yourself ten minutes. I’ll meet you there. I have something to tell you, too. Can we talk after dinner?
A moment later an income text arrived.
I have plans for your mouth tonight, but I’m sure we can squeeze in a conversation.
The only thing she envisioned him doing after their conversation was washing his hands of her, and she vowed she’d make it easy for him—he was entitled to take the high road right out of her life, and no matter how much it hurt to let him go, she would. Strong, trustworthy, intrinsically good Booker deserved someone equally strong. Equally trustworthy.
Since the night of the Las Ventanas party, she’d fooled herself into thinking she could be that woman, but true to the woman she actually was, she’d gambled with fate rather than face the consequences of her bad decisions.
Taking the gamble only underscored her lack of strength and integrity, and losing promised to cost more than she’d realized she’d put at risk, but if she truly cared about Booker the one thing she could do at this point was help cut his losses.
Start by being on time tonight. She dropped her phone into her purse, grabbed her keys, and headed out, only to skid to a halt as she approached her carport. The back end of the Expedition tilted noticeably to the right, thanks to a tire flat.
Shit. She kicked off her heels, and stowed them, plus her purse, in the car. Twenty minutes and several curse words later she raced back inside her apartment to clean up, and then rushed back to the car. She was going to be late.
One the way to Las Ventanas she considered and rejected ways to explain things to Booker. Should she start with her mother’s call and the demand for half the insurance payout in exchange for silence? No, that would mean backtracking to the real issue—the one she felt most guilty about—not admitting up front she’d been in the bakery the morning of the fire, paying her mother to leave her alone.
This isn’t a donut, Peterson. You can’t sugarcoat it.
Lead with the first bad decision and go from there, she decided as she weaved her way through Las Ventanas’ lobby to Ventanas del Mar, the five-star restaurant where Booker, his family, and the other members of the wedding party occupied a private table on the terrace.
Booker spotted her first and stood. His dark eyes scanned her face as she neared, and she did her best to look normal. He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine.” To the table, she added, “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re just in time,” Kate called from her spot mid-table as a waiter arrived with a tray of glasses. “We ordered champagne.”
Booker guided her to the empty chair next to his and held it for her. Before he stepped away, he paused and leaned close to her ear. “What’s wrong?”
“I had a flat,” she said, and offered him what she hoped passed for a smile while he took his seat. Aaron passed her a flute o
f champagne, and she transferred the smile to him, but it died on her lips when a skinny, red-haired woman in tight jeans and an even tighter sweater staggered through the French doors, with the silver-haired maître d’ in hot pursuit.
Fuck, no. She wanted to stand, but her body refused to move.
“Madam, please.” The maître d’ made a grab for Denise’s arm.
“Get the hell away from me,” she slurred, and shoved the dark-suited man in the shoulder with one hand. The other clutched a half-empty liter of gin.
“Security is on the way,” he murmured.
The discretion was wasted. Everyone in the vicinity turned to stare. Everyone. Belligerent drunk women cursing out the staff weren’t the norm at Las Ventanas.
“There she is.” Denise elbowed the maître d’ away from her. “I told you my daughter’s here. And there she is.” She pointed at Laurie and grinned.
Booker got to his feet. His movement freed her from the paralysis of mortification. Her legs finally responded to the urgent signals her brain sent and she surged out of her chair. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, Lauralie. Our last conversation ended so abruptly, and then you didn’t return my calls, so you left me no choice. I drove all the way to this Godforsaken town to talk some sense into you. I turned onto your street in time to see that big, shiny SUV of yours pull out. It’s so easy to follow, I just tagged along.” She stopped, tipped the bottle, and took a long drink. “And now it all makes sense.”
“Let’s take this outside, Mom.” Funny, how calm she sounded. Nobody would guess her pulse raced so fast her head felt light.
