Fluffy(76)

Anyhow–we’re at a small farm-to-table restaurant that opened six months ago in a renovated barn on a local non-profit community-supported farm, waiting for all ten invitees to show up, the small banquet room perfect for privacy... when Parker Campbell walks in.

I nearly drop my artisanal blood orange martini on the floor.

“Skip! Great you could make it!” Will says, giving him a genuine hug that goes beyond polite back smacking.

Skip. This is Skip? I rub my eyes, careful not to smear the five layers of mascara Perky applied to my eyes half an hour ago. Nope. It's definitely Parker Campbell.

The guy who ruined Perky's life five years ago.

Our eyes meet. His smile has layers, going from polite to apologetic to nostalgic, settling finally on uncertain charm.

“Mallory,” he says simply, dimples on display, looking every inch the young lawyer who was an assistant to the right congressman and filled his seat in a special election after an untimely tragedy.

“Let me introduce you,” Will says. “Mallory, this is–”

Not baring my teeth is really, really hard.

“Will you excuse us?” I say to Parker, grabbing Will's arm and giving no one a choice in the matter. Will's a strong, tall guy but right now, I've got Hulk-level rage running through my veins as I pull him into a hallway near a stack of high chairs.

Where we run straight into Perky.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Her eyes are laser beams focused across the room.

Parker should be a smoldering piece of carbon right now.

“He’s in the wedding party,” Will says, bewildered. “One of my groomsmen.”

“How do you know Parker?” Perky asks Will like she’s asking him why he’s holding a bloody murder weapon.

“We met in grad school. We worked on a project together in a supply-chain management workshop. How do you know him?”

Perky is agog. I can see her back molars from three feet away. She closes her mouth.

Around a beer bottle. Her throat is a metronome of perfect tempo as she swallows all of the contents, then sets down the bottle.

Did Will’s shoulders drop in relief?

“You never mentioned Parker was coming!” Perky gasps, then belches, polite enough to keep it contained, which is really unusual given her propensity for burping contests no one else ever participates in. “You didn’t say anyone named Parker. You told me I was paired with some guy named Skip,” she whisper-yells at Will.

“Skip is his nickname. Short for Skipper. We went sailing on a long weekend vacation and when we came about, he didn’t duck. Threw him off the boat. Skipper stuck. We shortened it to Skip.”

“That is such a stupid nickname,” I inform him. “Why does everyone have to have a nickname? Can’t we trust our parents’ judgment and just go with what they gave us?”

“And Perky is so much better?”

Did Will just go there?

Yep. He did.

“Are you–are you making fun of my friend? The one your friend nearly destroyed with revenge porn?”

Will and I have never had a fight before. I feel one brewing.

“Revenge what?” Will’s eyes pop out and his voice drops. “What are you saying about Skip?”

“You really don’t know?”

“I know that Skip is a member of the U.S. House of Representatives for a district in Texas. Is there something else I’m supposed to know about him?”

“Oh, my God,” Perky groans. “Damned if we tell him, damned if we don’t.”

Fiona chooses that exact moment to rush over to us and hiss, “What the hell is Parker doing here?”

Will gives me a help me out, honey look. “Mal, I don’t understand what you guys don’t like about Skip.”

Perky answers for me. “He’s a dirty, filthy, disgustingly immoral sonofabitch who is also–”

“So happy to see you.” Parker’s words cut Perky off and suddenly, he’s kissing her.

And from the looks of it, she’s kissing him right back.

Which is fine.

Until she hauls off and punches him.



:)





Curious about Perky? Watch for her eponymously titled standalone novel wherever you buy books:

AN ALL-NEW STANDALONE FROM NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR JULIA KENT



One hundred years ago when I was young and impulsive (okay, it was five, alright? Five years ago…) I let my boyfriend take, let's just say...compromising pictures of me.

(Shut up. It made sense at the time).

Surprise! The sleazy back-stabbing jerk posted them on a website and, well, you can guess what happened. That’s right.

I’m a meme. A really gross one.

You're seen the pictures. And if you haven't – don’t ask. And don't look!

As face recognition software online improves, I get tagged on social media whenever anyone shares my pictures. You try getting a thousand notifications a day, all of them pictures of your tatas.

So. I’m done.

It’s time for revenge. Let him see how it feels! But how do you get embarrassingly intimate pictures of your jerkface ex who double-crossed you five years ago?

Especially when he’s a member of the U.S.House of Representatives now?