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Why would she paintthatparticular blossom?
* * *
WREN
Two days have passed since the unmentionableincident, and not a single word from my would-be guardian.
Nothing when I’d greeted him as he’d disembarked from the elevator following his day of being AWOL.
Nothing when I’d passed him in the hallway outside his office on my way to the studio, either.
He’d conveniently ensured that our paths didn’t cross unlessabsolutelynecessary. And when they did, he treated me as though I didn’t exist.
Not a word. Not a glance.
I don’t like it one fucking bit. I miss our simple interactions, even the damn pranks.
I miss the sound of his laughter. The soul-deep joy that my entire heart would feel in receipt of one of those perfect smiles.
Not the ones everyone gets. The ones that light him up from within. Imissthem.
I misshim. Damn it all to hell.
When did his presence turn from an irritation to a vital part of my day?
In desperation and fed up with my confinement, I’d pleaded with Ford, my cowboy ally, to take me out for lunch today. To my utter surprise, I’d received a missive thirty minutes later, announcing that my grounding was canceled on the stipulation that I bring Jules with me.
“He’s being a fucking Cactus.”
Elodie squeals with laughter, drawing the attention of a perplexed-looking Jules, who’s sitting at the table opposite to ours.
She’d positively crowed with delight when I’d whispered my most current news in her ear as Jules had driven the black SUV uptown.
My most no-nonsense friend was obviously my first port of call, though as she snorts in my pissed-off face, I’m beginning to rethink my choice.
“It’s not funny, Rivers. You don’t have to live with his mood swings. Seriously!” I huff as I drop my chopsticks onto my half-eaten sushi with a dark look. “I wasn’t born with enough middle fingers to express how I feel about VaughnfuckingBurton.”
Elodie’s laughter escalates, drawing even more attention, and my face begins to heat. “I’m not being funny. I called you to commiserate; I’ll have you know!”
With a final hiccupping snort, Elodie steeples her delicate fingers, resting her chin atop them with a mischievous smile. “I know, I know. And I’msorry, but this shit is gold. I don’t think I’ve ever seen mild-mannered good girl, Wren Caputo, so riled up in her pampered life.”
“Hey!” I bristle with indignation. “I’m not—”
She holds up her index finger at my protest, shooting me a devilish wink as she lowers her voice. “But, if provocation is your game, you’ve come to the right friend.”
Leaning closer across the table, she whispers, “Tell me more about those pranks…”
* * *
As Elodie suggested, Operation Provocation is in full swing, and I’m feeling lighter as I prep to leave the apartment to go to my studio, when a text from Mom chimes from my cell.
MOM
Service is still poor. I’m thinking of you.
ME
I miss you too, but please, try to have fun. You deserve it.
