Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

Not one of my better moves, telling these two clowns about that. I blame the copious amounts of whisky consumed the night she left.

“Yeah, but that was before all the shit went down. Pretty sure the invitation doesn’t still stand.”

“Which makes it better,” Vaughn says. “You can surprise her.”

I stare at him blankly. “Surprise her with what?”

“Jesus.” Vaughn rubs his forehead. “Here’s your plan, and if she ever asks you, you thought of this all by yourself. You use that plane ticket that your good friend Vaughn bought you. You arrive at LAX, where a car will pick you up and take you to a hotel, also paid for by your good friend Vaughn. A tux will be waiting. Convenient, actually, that you got your measurements taken for the wedding before actually calling off the wedding. You’ll be driven to the premiere in another car, which Vaughn paid for—”

I hold up a hand, looking over at Finn. “What did you pay for?”

Finn points to Ranger. “I’m watching your dog.”

“Yeah, because that’s even,” Vaughn says.

“Have you smelled this dog’s farts?” Finn asks. “Trust me, we’re even.”

“So what happens at the premiere?” I ask, feeling both ready to puke and like I could take on the entire world just from the sheer possibility of having another chance.

“Okay, some of this has to be on you,” Vaughn says, exasperated. “I won’t be there to hold your hand. I connected with Jenny’s friend Amber—who sounds hot, by the way—who connected me with Jenny’s publicist, who is thrilled at the thought of you making a surprise appearance. She says that whichever way it goes, it’ll be front-page news.”

Definitely leaning more toward the barf side of things now.

“The publicist will take care of all the coordination. All you have to figure out is what to say when you see her.”

“You got that part figured out, right?” Finn says, clamping a hand on my shoulder.

I stare down at the plane ticket. Los Angeles.

Fuck. I must really love this girl.

“Actually,” I say slowly, “I think I do.”

Jenny

“Jennifer Ann Dawson, would you sit still?”

“Amber Kelsey Fuller, would you stop pulling my hair?” I retort.

“Sure, sure, because I’ll just let you go on the red carpet looking like a hobo,” Amber says, winding another piece of my hair around a curling iron.

I roll my eyes, hoping I don’t dislodge one of the fake eyelashes in the proces

s.

I look back at my reflection.

The girl—no, woman—looking back at me in the mirror doesn’t look like a hobo. She looks both elegant and youthful, poised and playful, artfully made up but also all-American.

She also looks sad. But only if you look at the eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re not coming tonight,” I tell Amber glumly.

Ever since my first awards show, Amber’s been there. I fly her out and buy her In-N-Out that she bastardizes by getting the cheeseburger with lettuce instead of the bun, and then she proceeds to show me about nine million makeup options.

With approximately a trillion makeup artists in Southern California, it may seem like flying out my best friend is overkill, but Amber doesn’t just do my makeup and hair; she’s also my date.

Except tonight I’ll be flying solo, courtesy of some bug she picked up on the airplane.