One Week with the Marine (Love on Location)

No. Caring about someone else that intensely was not in the cards. Her mother had done that, and look where that had landed her.

Perfectly nowhere.

She sailed down the snack food aisle, tossing bag after bag of junk into her cart. With Holden visiting for a whole week, they were both going to need sustenance. Myla followed behind her, so she zigzagged, trying to cut her off or force her to crash into the cart. Anything to get her to shut up.

“I think you’re full of it.” Myla started up again, but as Avery had hoped, her friend careened into the cart, and before she could right the eggs that had tipped over

, Avery was off and running.

“Almost forgot the whipped cream,” she shouted over her shoulder.

Even with the distance between them, she could hear Myla’s disgusted sigh.

Whatever. Her nerdy friend had never really understood the art of playing the field. The one time she tried to have a one-night stand, she’d ended up living with the guy. Typical friggin’ Myla.

Avery grabbed a canister of cream from the aisle and sprinted back to where she’d left her friend. The other woman was standing mid-aisle, leaning lazily against a rack of potato chips.

“Hey, before I forget, Oliver wanted me to invite you and Holden to dinner on Wednesday. At our house.” Myla’s lips curled around the word “our,” her eyes glazing into a dreamy, sickening look. The pure joy in her expression only made Avery’s heart sink that much deeper in her stomach. Myla was clearly beyond taken with her boyfriend, which would only make the inevitable heartbreak that much worse.

But no matter how Avery felt, it did not mean she was joining the dinner-party circuit. “Oh, well, uh…”

“Avery. Please.”

She hedged.

It wasn’t that Myla and Oliver were obnoxious together. They were a little gooey, sure, but seeing her friend’s happiness made it bearable. Still, being around them was unnerving. And no matter how deliriously happy Myla was, there was something about Oliver that never seemed quite right.

Bring Holden there? It would be that much less time to spend alone with him in varying states of undress.

But Myla was pleading with her. She might have gotten on Avery’s nerves from time to time, but there was never a place in her heart that wanted to turn her friend down. As many times as she’d been by Myla’s side for one heartbreak or the other, she’d been by Avery’s through family hardship and everything in between.

Myla deserved a good friend, and Avery was determined to be that person. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

Myla beamed, and despite everything, Avery grinned back. It would be fine. Just so long as Myla didn’t launch into her classic speech with Holden, as well.

“It’s going to be great! Oliver is a wonderful cook.”

“I’m glad. Last time I was at your house for dinner, you set boiling water on fire, so I’m already starting with pretty low expectations.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad.” Even Myla’s matter-of-fact tone was less than convincing.

“I distinctly remember foraging in your shrubbery for sustenance. I nearly ambushed a passing pizza delivery guy.” Avery popped open a container of off-brand chips. The memory of that night alone was enough to make her stomach growl with desperation.

“You did ambush him.”

“Either way, I got the job done. And don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that calzone, too.”

The pair shuffled into the checkout line while Myla toyed with the groceries in Avery’s cart.

Myla ran her fingers over the cover of a glossy soap opera magazine, pausing for a fraction of a second over the image of her actor-boyfriend, Oliver. The ghost of a smile captured her friend’s lips, but obviously, her thoughts were elsewhere. “So, how does Holden feel about this setup?”

Jesus, the woman was like a freaking conversational zombie. Right when everyone thought the topic was dead, she sprang back up and droned on again. Brainlessly.

“He’s happy. I think.” Avery crunched on a chip, savoring the cheesy, cardboard-like goodness. How was she supposed to know what Holden thought? Asking him would open up a discussion she’d skillfully avoided for five years.

“You think?” Myla’s brows flew upward.

“We don’t talk about stuff like that. If he wasn’t happy, he’d bail. We have an open-ended agreement.”