But come on, what the hell is she thinking? I’ve worked so damn hard to keep us on the same page, to make sure neither of us gets attached to something that’s not going to last, and—
She’s crying, and the truth is right there all over her gorgeous, heartbroken face.
I failed. She’s already attached. Jenny Dawson doesn’t just want me as a plaything for this movie premiere. She wants me as her boyfriend for all the premieres.
I take a gulp of wine as I try to figure out how I feel about that.
I can’t figure it out. My chest is tight, my throat is tight, I want to—
“Preston?”
I freeze.
Holy. Shit.
I turn around slowly, willing the voice to belong to someone else. Anyone else.
Anyone other than my ex-fiancée.
Who’s staring—no, glaring—at Jenny.
“What is this?” Yvonne asks. “Preston, who is this?”
“Preston?” Jenny asks, giving me a bewildered look. There’s no accusation there, which makes me realize she thinks Yvonne is the one who’s mistaken. I feel my heart crack in two at her blind trust.
Trust I don’t deserve.
“I’m Jen,” Jenny says with a little smile, clearly wanting to smooth things over with a riled-looking Yvonne. She starts to lift a hand to her wig before catching herself and extending it to Yvonne. “And you are…?”
“His fiancée,?
?? Yvonne snaps, ignoring Jenny’s outstretched hand.
Jenny recoils as though someone’s struck her. Then her gaze slowly drops to Yvonne’s left hand, where my ex is still wearing the ring I gave her.
Jenny’s eyes drift slowly to me, and I know the second she meets my eyes that she’s figured out the truth. Or at least enough of the truth to leave me truly, utterly fucked.
Deservedly so.
“Preston?” Jenny whispers again, her tone different this time, as the truth settles around her.
“I see you’ve picked a real brainiac as your revenge plan, sweetie,” Yvonne says, placing a hand on my shoulder. I brush it off, but it’s too late. Jenny’s eyes are boring a hole into the spot where Yvonne’s hand rested.
“I’ll explain,” Yvonne coos in a saccharine voice worthy of Hollywood’s nastiest villains. “The guy you’ve been screwing is my fiancé, Noah Preston Maxwell Walcott Jr. He goes by Preston, except when he’s slumming it.”
Yvonne’s gaze rakes over Jenny, and the slur is clear.
“That’s enough,” I say, slamming my fist on the table, long past caring about causing a scene. I stand, grabbing for Yvonne’s elbow, but she flits away, eyes still on Jenny.
“I made a mistake,” Yvonne says. “I had a little indiscretion, and Preston here wanted his revenge. Guess you’re it.”
Yvonne keeps yapping, something about having the wedding invitation to prove it, but Jenny’s stopped listening, as have I.
We stare at each other, her in righteous anger, me in mute misery.
“Jenny—”
“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “Just don’t. You’re the one I emailed all those weeks ago asking to rent the house?”