The Truth About Lennon

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “You think?”

“Absolutely. He might be upset at first, but you can explain everything, and then you two can put it behind you. That night doesn’t define you, Lennon.”

Now if only Noah will see it the same way. “I know. You’re right.”

Charlotte blows on her fingernails and buffs them on her shirt. “I’m always right.”

I tip my glass toward hers, and she clinks it softly. “I’m sorry,” I say.

She pulls her glass back. “For what?”

“I won’t be making it for drinks this weekend.”

“Pssh.” She waves me off. “Don’t think twice about it.”

I draw in a nice, big breath, and when I blow it out, I try to let go of all of my insecurities. Tomorrow night after Nova goes to bed, I’ll tell Noah everything: who my parents are and the real reason I came to Heaven, and then we’ll have crazy make-up sex and all will be good.

I smile to myself as the bell rings on the front door of the shop, signaling someone’s entry.

I glance at my watch and shoot Charlotte a look. “You expecting someone?”

She shakes her head. “Be right there,” she hollers, handing me her wine glass.

Charlotte peeks her head around the corner and whips back around, eyes wide.

“Oh shit. Okay.” I set both glasses down and reach for my purse. “Stay calm. I’ve got mace,” I whisper.

“No,” she whispers, laughing. “The guy who just walked in is hot.”

“Oooh,” I croon. No one is as hot as Noah, but I can play along for the sake of our friendship. “How hot is hot?”

“Like three-piece suit, just-walked-off-the-set-of-an-Armani-ad hot. Tall. Blond. Lean.” Charlotte fans herself and whispers, “Wish me luck.” Then she disappears around the corner.

I can hear them talking, but with the music coming through the speakers, I can’t quite make out what they’re saying.

Three seconds later, she walks back around the corner.

“Did you get his number?” I ask, looking at my phone. “Or maybe you need me to leave so—”

“He’s here for you.”

The bleak tone of her voice brings me to full attention. Charlotte’s lips are pressed into a grim line, the color gone from her face.

There are really only two men who could elicit that sort of reaction from someone: my dad or Mathis.

And since my dad isn’t blond, that leaves only one option.

With a calm I didn’t know I possessed, I tuck my phone in my pocket and stand. Charlotte wraps a hand around my arm.

“Want me to come with you?”

“No.” I shake my head and round the corner.

If I was any other woman, the sight of Mathis—tall, freshly shaven, and dressed to the nines—leaning against the front counter would surely drop me to my knees. He’s always been breathtaking. Well-dressed, perfectly tousled blond hair, a sleek, square jaw without an ounce of stubble, and a devastating smile that apparently—behind my back, of course—made women everywhere drop their panties.

Lucky for me, I see past what’s on the outside, and his inside is ugly.

“What the hell are you doing here, Mathis?”