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Perfect Red
When we got back to the house, there was a large SUV parked out front. It seemed odd, but not for long—as soon as we walked into the house and Maddie ran upstairs, back to her movie, I went into the kitchen. And found Ben standing by the coffee machine, holding a mug and laughing.
With Michelle.
Michelle Carter. In my kitchen.
She was gorgeous, and effortlessly stunning, wearing a long silk dress and cowboy boots, her red hair pulled up into a loose bun. She held a mug herself. My mug. Like it belonged to her, like she belonged standing in my family’s kitchen, leaning comfortably against the countertop, leaning comfortably, hips open, into Ben.
Ben looked up, noticing I was there. “Hey,” he said.
Then he motioned toward Michelle.
“Michelle came to pick up Maddie a little early,” he said.
My heart was beating so hard, I actually thought they could hear it. I forced a friendly smile. “Is that right?”
“I apologize for just arriving!” s
he said. “My phone is useless in wine country.”
Ben smiled at me, his eyes apologizing. “They have to get back to London, but she wanted to come by the house so you two could meet.”
“Or meet again,” Michelle said.
She spoke in this powder-soft voice, which forced you to lean forward just to hear her. I drilled her with a look, disliking her powder-soft voice, disliking that she was trying to add levity to the awkwardness of that meeting on the street. At another moment that would have been what was called for, but after my conversation with her daughter, it was the last thing that was called for.
Michelle gave me a smile, which lit up her face, making her seem younger and older than she was, almost like a different species. As pretty as she was when she wasn’t smiling, when she did—smile at you—it was trancelike. Making it hard to avoid being mesmerized by her. Michelle knew it. Of course she knew it. Every man in the world told her.
And if I wasn’t intimidated enough by the idea of her, the perfect woman standing territorially close to my fiancé—and staring at me post-pancake, un-showered—certainly sealed the deal.
“Benjamin has told me wonderful things about you.”
She put her hand on his arm, as though she had ownership over Benjamin, whoever he was. As though I was someone they were meeting.
“Did he?” I said.
“He did,” she said.
Michelle smiled, and it wasn’t lost on me. She didn’t want it to be lost on me—her eyes piercing me, like a challenge.
Michelle held my gaze, until I turned back to my fiancé. “Ben, can I talk to you alone for a second?”
Ben glanced at Michelle, embarrassed. “Of course.”
“It’s nice to see you,” Michelle called out as I stormed out of the kitchen, the softness of her voice rising just enough that it was impossible to miss it.
I walked out the back door, toward our patio, as Ben followed behind. I didn’t know where I was leading us, which might explain why the two of us ended up in our wedding tent.
We ended up where we were supposed to be married in five days, the sun shining down on it, burning through.
“I’m so sorry, Georgia,” he said. “She showed up early.”
I tried to catch my breath, the chill from the vineyard rising up behind me, making little sense with that sun.
Ben shook his head. “She insisted on coming over and saying hello.”
“You didn’t want to give me a heads-up?”
