Page 7 of Forked (Frenched 2)
“Well, because he’s, um…” My ex. Famous now. The best sex I ever had and the worst mistake I ever made. There were any number of ways I could’ve finished that sentence, but finally I went with “probably not available.”
“I want him.” Angelina poked an index finger onto my desk. Unlike her pink and white pedicure, her fingernails were painted corpse gray. “Get him.”
“Uh, I don’t think Nick Lupo does private parties.” I hadn’t said his name out loud in years, and the sound of it, the feel of it on my lips brought back powerful memories—the taste of whiskey and apple pie. A warm, muscular body moving over mine. The crunch of leaves beneath my back. A wide, lush mouth closing over my breast as he filled the hollow ache inside me—
I crossed my legs and squeezed my thighs together. Don’t.
“This isn’t just any private party. Tell him who it’s for,” said Angelina, like duh. “Tell him who my father is. He’ll do it.”
My insides churned. “I guess I could try.”
“Do it. Or I’ll get someone who can.” Her loud voice was razor sharp, and I suddenly got the feeling God wasn’t the one who’d sent her.
Fuck.
“I’ll do it.” My throat was bone dry, my words barely audible.
“What?”
“I’ll do it,” I said more forcefully. “I’ll get him.”
“You promise?” Angelina sniffed.
“Yes.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
We finished up, and after she left, I dropped my head onto my desk and banged my forehead against the wood until it ached.
Nick Lupo. I had to face Nick Lupo, after all this time.
Even Mia didn’t know the complete truth about my most impulsive decision ever. I’d been too ashamed to tell her.
When he’d left me sleeping in that room at the Bellagio seven years ago, I’d been wearing a wedding ring. That he’d put on my finger the night before.
He’d left his ring on the nightstand along with a note.
This was a mistake.
I needed a plan. Automatically I pulled my phone from my purse with the intention of calling Mia, but as soon as I unlocked my screen I saw one last message from her.
Please tell me you said no to that party.
Crap. I couldn’t ask her for help. What’s more, I was going to have to lie to her about taking the Spackatelli gig. She had enough to worry about— packing and planning and dealing with multiple families. Both her and Lucas’s parents were divorced, and figuring out where to house and seat everyone had given her hives over the last couple weeks. Being less than honest with her about the business we shared made me feel squeamish, but in this case, I felt a little truth-avoidance was the kinder way to go, even if it was a bit self-serving. Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to do it in person—Mia wasn’t kidding about my being the worst liar in the world. And just in case I was so bad she could hear the falsehood in my voice, I decided on a text.
No worries! She agreed to move the date.
Have fun packing
I pressed send, ignoring the voices in my head screaming, You just lied to your best friend! You’re a terrible person! You deserve to fail!
Dropping my phone back into my bag as if it had bitten me, I squeezed my eyes shut and took several deep, slow breaths. Seven of them, to be exact
—one for each year Nick and I had been apart. Years I’d spent grieving him, nursing my broken heart, hating myself for my stupidity and Nick for his callous behavior. Years during which I’d come to terms with the fact that he and I were wrong for each other, that my first love wouldn’t be my last, no matter how romantic the notion, and that some betrayals just can’t be forgiven. Years I’d suffered for him.
But that was the past. Ancient history.
I could let all that go, couldn’t I? For the cause?
