Twisted Lies (Twisted 4)

STELLA

“Stella!I know you’re in there. Open up!”

Oh no.

I buried my face in my silk pillowcase, hoping the voice would go away, but knowing its owner, they would camp out in my hall until I inevitably had to leave for fresh air and food.

My morning visitor was nothing if not persistent.

“Stella Alonso! You can’t hide from me.” A pause, followed by a more conciliatory, “I have matcha.”

A groan escaped into my pillow.

I shouldn’t have put Jules on my list of approved visitors, but I also hadn’t expected her to beat down my door at…I raised my head and glanced at my digital clock…seven fifty-four in the morning.

Since she was already here and the chances of her leaving without answers were slim, I forced myself out of bed and into the living room.

I wish I’d had more time to prepare for human interaction. I hadn’t even gotten the chance to wash my face yet, much less meditate or practice my morning yoga.

I stifled a yawn as I swung open the door and blinked at the fuzzy purple-clad figure in front of me.

“It’s about time.” Jules stood in the hall, one hand planted on her hip and the other carrying a drinks tray from a nearby coffee shop. “Five more minutes and I would’ve broken down your door.”

“With your arm strength? Doubtful.”

I cracked a smile at her offended gasp. “Who are you and what have you done to Stella? She would never say something so hurtful.”

“The Stella you’re talking about typically doesn’t have people pounding down her door at eight in the morning.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than how much I’d rather crawl back into bed.

“First of all, it’s eight oh-five. Second of all, can you blame me after the bombshell you dropped on Instagram yesterday? You—” Jules exhaled sharply and smoothed a hand over her fuzzy purple coat. “No, we’re not doing this in the hallway. Let’s talk inside. Can I come in?”

“Would you leave if I said no?”

Her laser stare burned through her giant sunglasses and into my skin.

Right.

I sighed and opened the door wider. “You mentioned matcha?”

I gave up on coffee years ago because it worsened my anxiety. Matcha lattes were the closest I came to espresso these days.

“Yes. Consider this my bribe for all the juicy details.” Jules handed me the drink as she waltzed inside and pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. “Now…” She inhaled a long, deep breath. “You’re dating someone? You called him my love? How did I not know about this? How long have you been dating?”

I winced at the increasing volume of her questions while a construction crew invaded my head.

Bang. Bang. BANG!

Every swing of a hammer reverberated through my skull with bone-rattling force.

How much did I drink last night? Not that much, right? I usually limited my alcohol intake to three glasses per night, but I wouldn’t be this hungover after three glasses.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to piece the fuzzy pieces from last night together.

Baby turtles. Whiskey eyes. Champagne and gowns and…

“Is that all you want?”

“Not even close.”

The memory of my encounter with Christian slammed into me with such force it knocked the breath out of my lungs.

Everything came rushing back—our agreement, the photo I posted, the delicious roughness of his hand in mine when we were talking to Mike, and the headiness of his scent when he pinned me to the wall.

Part of me was annoyed by his overprotectiveness when I’d just gone to the bathroom, for God’s sake.

Another larger, more shameful part thrilled at the idea that he cared.

Pathetic? Probably.

True? Undeniably.

No one had cared that much about me since Maura, and Christian and I weren’t even really dating.

“...who is it?”

“Hmm?” Was Christian at home, or had he already left for the day?

I tried to picture him eating and sleeping like a normal person and couldn’t.

“Who’s your boyfriend?” Jules repeated. “You didn’t tag him, but that watch…” She wiggled her eyebrows. “I can tell just by his hand that he’s hot.”

Another piece from last night slotted into place.

My Instagram post. I’d been so busy at the gala I hadn’t checked my notifications.

I swallowed past the sudden lump in my throat. “I—”

“Good morning!” A quick knock on the half-open door interrupted my response. Ava entered, looking far too bright-eyed and fresh-faced for this early in the morning. “Am I late? Did I miss anything good?” She set a white Crumble & Bake bag on a side table. “Breakfast pastries,” she explained, following my gaze.

She opened the bag and handed out muffins.