Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)(12)

This reunion is off to a great fucking start.

"So you pretended to be my fiancée? That was the best plan you could come up with to get to me?" I wonder if she’s nuts. Wouldn’t that serve me right? If the one woman to catch my attention in forever is a bona fide nut job?

"Yeah. Sorry, not sorry. I've got things to do. I couldn't devote the rest of my life to finding you."

"Sorry, not sorry? Are you twelve?"

"Look." She uncrosses her arms and holds her hands up in some kind of very hostile jazz hands maneuver. "I told one person. One. That vile woman named Margo, because she wouldn't let me into the party. Which, by the way, I didn't realize it was going to be such a big, dumb, pretentious event that I'd need to be on a stupid list to get inside. I wasn't planning on any of that, okay? I said I was your date but she would not budge. I was nice to her. I was polite, but she just kept staring at me like the concept of you and me”—she pauses here to wave her finger dramatically between us—"was impossible. Which it is, because you're a jerk and I'm on a jerk diet, but maybe it just slipped out because I wanted to wipe the smug look off her face. Sue me." She thumps back onto the seat once again, this time not so much sighing as growling.

"Yeah, that all sounds totally sane."

She ignores me and continues on. "She's the one who told your sister and your cousin and you and God knows who else. That is not my fault. I just wanted to slip in and find you and get five minutes of your time, and then you were never going to see me again."

Five minutes. That's nice.

"Besides, I wasn't trying to get to you, as you put it, you arrogant jackass. I was just trying to notify you that you knocked me up because"—she pauses, sucking in a breath since she's been talking non-stop—"it's the polite thing to do," she finishes in a tone that implies that she's really, really displeased to be in my company. Just in case calling me a jackass made it unclear.

I'm not exactly thrilled myself at the moment. I had a fucking plan for this reunion, and this sure as hell wasn't it.

"Polite?" I deadpan in return. Nothing we've done together is polite. Nothing I want to do to her is polite. What a shortsighted word to describe us.

"You know what? Forget it. I've done my duty. You can fuck off now. We really don't have anything else to talk about. Just drop me off at the corner. I'll take a cab back to my hotel."

"You really are out of your goddamned mind," I tell her, ignoring her request to drop her off and pulling into the parking garage at my building.

"Whatever." She's turned away from me, arms firmly crossed and head staring out the passenger window. The dimly lit view of the inside of the parking garage is a better option than looking at me, it would seem.

"How'd you know I was going to be at the party? How did you even know about the party?"

"The internet, Kyle," she snaps. She's uncrossed her arms to free her hands for another rendition of belligerent jazz hands. I don't recall her being such a demonstrative talker, but she didn't hate my guts the last time I saw her so that might be the difference. "The internet," she repeats. "I know it's not a place you're familiar with, but it's where people communicate with one another and post announcements about things like parties. They find old friends or make plans to meet for a drink or see a movie."

"Next time I knock you up I'll open an Instagram account so you can find me without showing up unannounced pretending to be my fiancée."

"Go to hell."

"You have a real attitude problem."

"Ditto."

"Do you always argue with the maturity level of a child? Jesus."

"I don't know. Are you always a dick?" she shoots back.

"How much did you say to Wyatt and my sister?"

"Hardly anything. I was a model of discretion. You're welcome, by the way."

I snort and she continues.

"I mentioned that we met in Boston."

"What else?"

"Nothing else, you paranoid freak. By the way, your cousin seems to think I'm a hooker. Your family seems great."

I park the car and kill the ignition, turning my head to catch Daisy's eyes. "What in the hell did he say to you that implied he thought you were a prostitute?"

"He asked how much you were paying me."

I swear under my breath and get out of the car, slamming the door shut harder than necessary before walking around and wrenching Daisy's door open. I take her hand as some kind of fucked-up reflex, which she clearly disagrees with because she yanks her hand out of my grasp all of two seconds later. I keep walking toward the elevators and she follows, which is a good thing because I'm not in the mood to chase her through the parking garage of my building.

Neither of us speak on the ride up. Daisy's arms are crossed and she's nervously bouncing the toe of her heel against the floor, a sliver of her leg peeking through the slit in the dress with the movement. My eyes are drawn to the exposed skin and down to her heels.

They're too tall. Stilettos. She's likely to break an ankle in them and they make even the hint of her leg obscene. The only appropriate place for a shoe like that is a bedroom floor.

"Are those new?"