Good Girl(60)

"You married him?" I almost shriek it. In fact, I think I did shriek but the casino floor is loud enough to mask my outburst.

"Freaking Las Vegas, am I right?" Payton holds her free hand palm up and raises her eyebrows as if to say the city of Las Vegas is entirely responsible for her marital status. As if it's the same thing as complaining about the traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard or the temperature in summer.

She's entirely too nonchalant.

"When?" I demand. "When did this happen? How did this happen? You only met him two weeks ago! Payton! And”—I point my finger at her then stab it into my chest—"and you didn't even invite me?"

"I would have," Payton responds slowly as if I'm being irrational, "if I'd known it was happening. I absolutely would have invited you. You'd have made a much better maid of honor than Canon, that's for sure. My hair was a mess and he didn't even tell me. The wedding photos are horrible."

"There are photos?"

"Yeah. I think they came with the package. Did they come with the package, Vince?" She turns to him as if she wasn't just in the midst of trying to hide from him and as if he's not still in the midst of killing her with his eyes. "Pretty sure," she says again. "But good point. Maybe Canon took some with his phone that are better than the professional ones."

"That clearly wasn't my point."

"Oh."

"When did this happen?"

"Um, sometime after the auction but before the next morning." She waves her hand in an arc. "Somewhere in there. Things got"—she pauses—"a little crazy. I don't want to beat a dead horse about you missing it, but that night was a real good time.”

I glance between her and Vince again. Confused.

"So why are you avoiding Vince now?" I question. "Vince, also known as your husband."

"Calm down. Everyone knows what happens in Vegas isn't legally binding."

"That's not a thing that is true," I reply as Vince exhales loudly and closes the distance between himself and Payton, placing his hand on her lower back in a pretty obvious attempt to keep her from escaping.

"Enough. We need to talk," Vince tells her.

"Ugh. Talking is the worst," Payton groans, dragging out the word ‘ugh’ and dropping her head back in exasperation. She stomps one heeled foot in added protest.

For once, I have to agree with Payton. Also, I'm wondering if they had sex yet.





Thirty





RHYS



Lydia is talking to Vince and she's upset. Agitated. While I'm trapped talking to the governor of Nevada, a board member from the UK and a high-roller from Hollywood whose name I can't remember even though we were introduced not five minutes ago. Because I'm distracted. The one thing I wanted to avoid during this opening was distractions and I've ended up with the biggest distraction of my life.

I'm irritated for allowing this to happen. Allowing Lydia to wiggle into my life and disrupt everything.

I'm aggravated that I can't hear what they're talking about. That I don't know why she's upset or what's causing her eyes to widen and her lips to pout.

Fucking Vince. I'm putting an end to this tonight. Why do I even associate with people like this? What am I doing? The arrangement with Lydia can't continue like this. Not for another day.

Except it will have to, because Vince disappears shortly after I spot him talking to Lydia. And I never get a chance to speak to Lydia about what's upset her because we're torn in different directions for the rest of the evening, or surrounded by swarms of people.

Everyone loves her. I get it, I do, but I don't want to share. I want her all to myself like the selfish prick I am. I want to drag her upstairs and find out what Vince wanted, then make love to her until she does the ‘oh, oh, oh’ and the ‘Rhys, Rhys, Rhys.’

But that does not happen. When we're finally headed upstairs for the night I get pulled away to speak with the president of a major liquor company, a woman who's flown in from France to attend the grand opening, so talk I must. Lydia heads upstairs without me and she’s sound asleep by the time I join her thirty minutes later.

Sunday morning I rise to find that Lydia is up before me, which never happens. "We need to talk," I tell her the moment I walk into the living room. I've just stepped out of the shower, a towel still wrapped around my waist. It smells like a bakery in here and Lydia is slicing bananas at the kitchen island. She's awake and dressed and somehow I'm already feeling three steps behind on this day. I checked my messages before I went into the shower so I know I haven't overslept. I also know I've got no fewer than a dozen voicemails that require an answer and Jennings wants to meet at ten to go over the forecasting reports for the next quarter.

And it's Sunday. And I'm tired as fuck. And all I want to do is eat breakfast on the couch with Lydia and watch whatever home show is on at nine in the morning.

"What's going on with you and Vince?"

"What?" Lydia looks up at me in confusion. "Oh, that. Crazy stuff. I made French toast casserole with Nutella and caramelized bananas. In the Crock-Pot, see how handy it is? I just have to sauté these bananas for the top and it's ready."