Bad Cruz

We needed to clear the air.

Tennessee: Hey. Sorry for what happened at the rehearsal dinner. I’d like to talk. Can you come over at

Coulter banged his fist on the bell, indicating one of the orders was ready.

“Table three.”

My eyes glided back to the text message I was finishing.

“Waitress! Are you going to keep us waiting just so you can mess around on your phone? It’s an ice cream! It melts!” Mrs. Holland hollered loud enough for people in neighboring states to hear.

With a low growl, I shoved my phone into my purse behind the counter, grabbed their order, and stomped my way toward their table.

Mrs. Holland was lounging back on the red vinyl, her daughter nowhere to be seen.

Where’d Gabriella go? To sharpen her fangs before sinking them into my neck?

“There you go.” I set the sundae, coffee, and Diet Coke on their table. “Hope you enjoy.”

“Oh, we will. No peanuts, right?”

“That’s what you asked a trillion times,” I confirmed. “Don’t worry, the only nuts we have around here are you and your daughter.”

“Wouldn’t kill you to be more polite.”

“Wouldn’t kill you to be more gracious,” I deadpanned.

“I cannot wait for Dr. Costello to dump you.” Mrs. Holland’s smile widened.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

“Even if he dumps me, which he very well might, he would never be with your daughter. She is everything you raised her to be—venomous, mean, petty, and perhaps worst of all—boring.”

“I suppose you’re a much better catch?”

She wrinkled her nose.

At least the smile dropped from her lips.

I shrugged. “He chose me, didn’t he?”

With those parting words, I went back to the counter, passing Gabriella on my way. She sneered at me, her shoulder purposely brushing mine as she took her seat.

“They seem like quite the pair.” Trixie untangled herself from her phone to squeeze my forearm. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” I rubbed her arm. “I’m used to it.”

After taking another order, I was about to retrieve my phone and finish the message to Cruz when I heard a loud gasp behind my back, followed by a thud.

Turning around, I found Gabriella on the diner floor, clutching her neck, moaning that she couldn’t breathe.

“My baby! My baby!” Mrs. Holland waved her hands frantically. “Someone call a doctor! I think she is having an allergic reaction! She’s allergic to peanuts!”

People began running around in all directions. Trixie grabbed the phone behind the counter and dialed nine-one-one. Someone said they might have an EpiPen in their purse, flipped their bag over and rummaged through their belongings.

Mrs. Holland was crying and doing the same, going through her daughter’s tote.

And me…I knew I had been set up.