Faking It with the Frenemy

“It’s from an ex. I’m still friendly with her,” Louis says, looking from me to Wyatt. “Sign of a man’s maturity, when he can get along with his exes.”

Oh, please. His ex hates his guts if she gave him that tie. He probably needs good insurance to pay for anti-delusion meds.

I loop my arm around Wyatt’s and lean closer to him, like we’re super tight. I know he’s my enemy and we’re just faking it. But Wyatt seems a thousand times safer than creepy Louis.

“Let’s go,” I say, reaching out to hold Vi’s small hand.

We walk away from Louis. Wyatt pulls his arm from mine, and for a moment, it seems like he doesn’t want me touching him at all or thinks I went too far. But then he puts it around my waist, pulling me closer. Although the sun’s warm and pleasant on my skin, the heat from Wyatt’s body is warmer and more pleasant. Actually, more than just pleasant. Body-tingling good. Making-my-breath-uneven good. It reminds me of the kiss…and how he felt when he took my mouth, pressed into me…

Stop thinking about that! He isn’t doing this to seduce you. It’s just for show, r

emember?

I need to think about something else. Anything but how my body’s reacting to his nearness, his scent, his heat…

“I want to say hi to Mom,” Vi says suddenly. “Can we go to her room?”

Wyatt nods. “Yeah. The dressing rooms are over there.” At my questioning look, he adds, “I was here once for a friend’s wedding.”

He leads us to one of the squat white buildings. They have open hallways that exit directly out to the green field that forms the center of the orangery. We knock on the double door. It opens, revealing a bridesmaid. The pink fairy-princess dress is a dead giveaway. That and the fact that it’s Abigail Madison, who replaced me as Geneva’s best friend after Wyatt and I broke up.

Abby hasn’t changed at all. Her slightly narrow-set green eyes are still mouse-beady, and her nose is still hawkish. The combination was jarring in high school, and it’s even more jarring now because her makeup sharpens her features until they look almost feral.

“You.” Her tone says she’s just encountered something unpleasant. Should’ve expected that, since she was a card-carrying member of Torment Kim Club when we were in high school.

“Hello,” I say with a smile that’s faker than a spray tan.

“What are you doing here?” Abby demands.

Putting on the bored “I’m a billion times superior to you” expression I’ve seen on Salazar’s face too often to count, I tilt my head in Wyatt’s direction. “I’m his plus-one.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “So that photo was actually real.”

For a moment I wonder what she’s referring to, then I remember the one Mom texted me earlier.

Geneva pops up behind Abby, then comes forward, pushing her out of the way to take center stage. “So, you’re an escort now?”

I’m torn between sighing with resignation and smacking her hard enough to knock the ridiculously large tiara from her coiffed and bleached platinum hair. In a blindingly white designer gown, she should look bridal, but there’s an ugly sneer on her red lips…and an empty coldness in her eyes, which are currently dark blue, thanks to colored contacts. I doubt they went from hazel to that unnatural shade on their own.

“Geneva, be nice,” Wyatt says.

She rolls her eyes. “‘Be nice, be nice,’ always so bossy and annoying. You know she’s only here because of your money. Nobody cared about you. They still don’t. They just like your bank account now.”

“Sort of like why you’re marrying an old man,” Wyatt asks. “Or do you just love that pale, saggy skin?”

Oh my God. Go, Wyatt!

“It’s totally different. Don’t be jealous.”

Like we’re going to be jealous of her becoming somebody’s trophy wife. But then, the whole point of the wedding and inviting everyone—even Wyatt, her ex-husband—is about making everyone envious. I know her too well to suspect any other motive.

She sneers at me. “Gold digger.”

Oh, for God’s sake. I inhale, ready to ream her. “You’re—”

“Mom…?” Vi’s voice is small, but it stops me better than a shout.

Shame is immediate and scalding. What am I doing? There’s a child watching, and this isn’t about me putting Geneva in her place. This is about Vi.