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“Dayton,” he reads over my shoulder. “If she asks, I’m still busy with the builders.”
I purse my lips and answer. “Hi, Bridezilla.”
“Fuck yourself,” she responds without a beat. “Is Aaron there?”
“He’s right beside me. Would you like to talk to him?” I smile sweetly at the man glaring at me.
“Yes. Now.”
Uh oh.
I hand the phone over to him. “Your fiancée would like to talk to you.”
He shakes his head and steps away to talk to her. I grin, leaning against my car. I watch as he obviously tries to calm her down for whatever bridal kick she’s on today.
I am so never getting married.
Ever.
After a few minutes, Aaron brings my phone back to me and rubs his temples. “She wants you to meet at her Starbucks. I asked her which, and she snapped, and I quote, ‘She knows which fucking Starbucks I mean. We’ve used the same place for five fucking-ass years.’”
I hide my smile and take my phone. “Seriously. Is she pregnant?”
He shakes his head. “After the last few days, thank god she isn’t. The day she does get pregnant, I’m going on a nine-month-long vacation. Now, before she marches over here and strings my balls from the pier, go to fucking Starbucks. I’m going to get Tylenol and a nap.”
I get in my car, laughing loudly, and wave to him. I think I want to feel sorry for him, but he can be just as bad.
When I arrive at Starbucks, and she gets in my car before I can even cut the engine.
“Drive. Now. To your apartment,” she demands, clicking her belt into place.
“I thought—”
“I need a tequila shot and a bottle of wine—something Starbucks can’t provide me. Foot down, Liv.”
She’s lucky I always have tequila and wine in my apartment.
“What’s wrong with you? Aaron said you weren’t pregnant, and if it weren’t for the demand of alcohol, I’d say he was lying.” I cut her a glance.
She clicks her tongue loudly. “I got my implant out and went on the pill. It’s fucking with my hormones. I’m like a walking ball of PMS.”
Ah. Wait… “You got your implant out?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you weren’t going to.” I pull up in the parking lot and we get out of the car.
“I wasn’t. But I thought about it and thought, ‘Hey, I’m not ready now, but who’s to say I won’t want a baby in a month? Or even two weeks?’ So I got the damn thing out and switched to the pill. It’s seriously messing me up.”
“Does Aaron know?”
“No.” She jabs the button for the third floor. “Hell no. If that man knew I was on the pill, he’d throw the fuckers in the bin and have my dress around my waist quicker than you could say, ‘fuck me!’”
I snort and let us into my apartment. Now that I can believe.
She heads straight for my liquor cabinet and pours a shot of tequila. She throws it back, winces, then slams the glass on the counter.
“You know, that’s probably something you should keep an eye on,” I tease her.
