Faking Forever (First Wives #4)(12)
What had she been thinking?
Everything about the past twenty-four hours was completely uncharacteristic for her. She was the quiet one, the one who held her opinion to herself until it was absolutely necessary to express it. She didn’t tell strangers off on airplanes or encourage young brides to ditch their fiancés. And for all that’s holy, she sure as heck didn’t talk to the brother of the groom and tell him what a moron his brother was.
Now, to add insult, she was hungover.
Stomach nauseous, headache, dry mouth hungover.
She needed crackers and ice . . . and a full day to sleep this off.
Sun blazed from outside her window.
Sleep would have to wait.
“This is not okay,” she said to her empty room.
Without considering the time, she picked up the phone and dialed.
Avery answered with a groggy voice, “You’d better be dying.”
“I am.”
“What the hell, Shannon. Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s almost seven.”
“No, it’s five.”
Shannon would feel bad about this later, but right now she needed help. “I drank too much last night. I need a hangover cure, fast.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Noise over the phone indicated Avery was talking to her husband and probably getting out of bed.
“You need a hangover cure, so you called me.”
“You’re my youngest friend. I’m not judging . . . help, Avery. I made an ass of myself and can’t be sick today.” Her stomach didn’t like the adrenaline provided by the memories of the previous night.
“Okay, okay. What were you drinking?”
“Tequila . . . wine earlier, and mezcal.”
“Damn, woman. Okay, you need a Bloody Mary or mimosa. Which makes you feel less ill thinking about it?”
“You’re kidding. Hair of the dog?”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding? When does the wedding start?” Avery asked.
“Two.”
“That’s a little time. You could just sleep.”
“I have to start taking pictures of the wedding party at noon.”
“Then put on your dark sunglasses, go down to the restaurant, order a Bloody Mary and toast, and drink plenty of water. If you start feeling sick, drink another one.”
“I can’t do my job drunk.” Shannon could count on one hand how many Bloody Marys she’d consumed in her lifetime.
“Can you do your job tossing your cookies?”
Shannon rested her head in her hand. “What was I thinking?”
“You weren’t, obviously. But it’s kinda nice to know you’re not perfect.”
“Of course I’m not perfect.”
Avery chuckled. “Compared to me, you are.”
“That’s not true.”
“Hey, you’re the one waking my ass up at five in the morning searching for a hangover cure. Babe, you get points for that, I don’t. Bloody Mary. Trust me. Keep a tiny infusion going to ward off all the crap from last night. Then, when it’s all over, sleep.”
Shannon saw the wisdom, and the stupidity, in Avery’s suggestion. “Thanks.”
“Oh, and Shannon?”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t wait to hear what prompted you to get drunk your first night there.”
Shannon shook her head and instantly regretted it. “By the time you get here, most of those reasons should be gone.”
Avery laughed as she hung up the phone.
With the aforementioned sunglasses covering her eyes, Shannon left her room wearing a pair of shorts, a cotton shirt, and sandals to make her way to the hotel restaurant.
She asked for a table, because sitting at the bar would make her early morning drinking look obvious. And she really didn’t want anyone from the wedding party seeing her.
The good news was the rain had vanished overnight.
The bad news was the rain had vanished overnight and the sun added to the pain in her head.
Note to self: Mezcal bad. Water good!
Her Bloody Mary arrived and she studied it for a good five minutes.
This is a stupid idea.
Best idea ever!
Stupid!!!
“It’s meant to be drank, not stared at.”
The voice came from behind her. Without looking, she knew the person it belonged to.
And that had her picking up the glass.
“I know that.”
“Mind if I sit down?”
The tomato juice, the vodka . . . maybe it was the pepper. Bad, bad, bad.
“As a matter of fact . . .”
Victor Brooks sat facing her.
“This is becoming a bad habit,” she said, ignoring the roll in her stomach.
“Oh?” He flagged the waiter down, ordered coffee. “What habit is that?” he asked once the waiter left.
“You,” she said. “Invading my air space.”
He leaned forward. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest you don’t like me very much.”
The tomato juice wasn’t that bad after the second sip.
She lowered her sunglasses long enough for him to see her peering at him with as much disapproval as she could muster with bloodshot eyes. “You’d be right.” This man brought out the worst in her.