Page 143 of Bridesmaid Undercover
And I don’t know how to deal with it. It’s either confront you or cry.
“Uh, the dips,” I say. “Something is wrong with the dips.”
“What do you mean?” His brows pull together.
“The, uh…the caterers can’t accommodate all of them,” I say, even though that’s not true.
“They can’t?”
“They can’t,” I say with a shake of my head. “And I thought that coming down here to tell you would be the best way to break the news that I was going to, uh…spend the evening making some dips for the party. So, have no fear,” I say with a fist pump. “Everly is here.”
Oh God, why did I say that?
That is humiliating.
But to my good fortune, a small and I mean—miniscule—smile tugs on his lips. “You came here to tell me the caterer’snot able to make all the dips and that you’re going to make them yourself?”
“Yup.” I nod. “I was, uh, I was going to email you, but you see, I didn’t get a response from my earlier emails or texts and, well, out of fear of you not receiving the information, I thought I should just tell you in person. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” He studies me for a second, his gaze nearly making me melt. “Well, do you need help?”
“Help with what?” I ask.
“Making the dips.”
“Oh, the dips.” I wave him off. “No, I’m good. Was going to head off to the grocery store, buy the ingredients and start putting everything together, so no worries. Just wanted to inform you of what’s happening, so anyway, yeah, that’s what’s going on.” I smile awkwardly. “Anywho.” I thumb toward the door. “Going to hit up the grocery store now, so have a good night and see you tomorrow. Okay, see ya. Bye.”
I rush out the last few words and then turn on my heel and head for the door.
Humiliating.
This was absolutely humiliating.
What the hell was I thinking?
Coming here and trying to see if he was okay. Of course he’s okay; he’s a grown man, so if he wants to call me by my real name in an email, he has the right to do so. If he wants to ignore my emails and texts, also, he has the right to do that too.
No need to check in on him. That’s what stalkers do.
Stalkers do this.
They check on people after not hearing from them for one day.
That’s what I am, a stalker.
A stupid, freaking stalker.
God, I’m disgusted with myself.
I make it outside of the building and head toward the parking garage, where I left my car for a cool twenty bucks because I’m a frivolous stalker apparently.
Tucking my purse against me, I brave the windy day, duck my head, and continue toward the garage. Then I feel a tug on my arm.
I nearly scream bloody murder—until Hardy’s face comes into view.
“Christ,” he says as the wind whips around us. “I was calling your name.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t hear you.”
