Well Played (Well Met #2)(37)

“Spa day for you soon, buddy.” I dropped a kiss on his head and gave his chin a scritch as the email page loaded. Several new emails, mostly confirming my confirmation, and I wondered if I should respond to them. Confirming their confirmation of my confirmation? It could be a never-ending circle if I wasn’t careful. So instead I opened each email and logged the responses carefully on the spreadsheet, in the final column. Later tonight I’d send the completed spreadsheet to Simon, and the last i’s would be dotted and t’s crossed. Just in time. That would make him happy.

Most everyone acknowledged the upcoming wedding, which was nice. Simon and Emily met at Faire, they fought at Faire, and they fell in love at Faire. Getting married at Faire and celebrating with so many people who loved them was exactly what they deserved. So each email expressing excitement at the wedding made me smile a little wider.

Until.

The last email was from Daniel MacLean, confirming the reservations I’d made for the Dueling Kilts. Two rooms, and the rest would camp in their RV.

“Daniel.” A smile crept up my face as I said his name aloud. After all these months of getting closer to Dex, I felt that I was part of this group in a weird way. Part of the family. Which was why the final paragraph of Daniel’s email stopped my breath.


Congratulations to Simon and Emily! This must be the year for weddings. My old college roommate got married a couple weeks ago in late June. Looking forward to celebrating with all of you when we head back in your direction.



I’d read those words before, and they’d made me smile. Now my smile was quashed, my pulse sped up, and a tingle spread across the back of my neck, sending gooseflesh down my arms. I picked up my phone from the coffee table and scrolled back to the day I’d been trying on wedding dresses. It took a while; Dex and I texted a lot. But there it was. . . . Must be the year for weddings . . . old college roommate . . . married in June . . . head back in your direction.

There were only two scenarios here that would explain what I had just read. One: Dex and Daniel MacLean were cousins. So it was possible that they used similar syntax, especially in writing. It was also possible, but a little less likely, that they both had an old college roommate getting married in June.

Or.

Or.

No.

My eyes flicked back to my laptop, to the email from Daniel that was still up. To the signature that was appended to the end, that included his cell phone number. By now I couldn’t breathe; my hands shook as I fumbled with my phone, tapping the little icon that brought up the details of Dex’s contact info. His email address, which I’d entered into my laptop as “Dex MacLean,” that we’d been communicating through all this time. His cell phone number, which showed up as Dex on my phone . . . because I’d put it in there that way. My eyes went back and forth, from laptop to phone, and there was no denying it. The number was the same.

All these months, when I’d been texting, emailing, and falling in love with Dex MacLean, the man on the other side of the screen was his cousin. Daniel.

What.

The.

Fuck.



* * *



? ? ?

What the fuck.

I wasn’t one for the F-bomb usually, but as I paced around my tiny apartment, those three words kept echoing in my head, in time with my footfalls.

What.

The.

Fuck.

It only got worse when my phone chimed with a text an hour later. A text from Dex . . . or Daniel. Or whoever the hell. Of course: it was about this time every night that his day ended and he texted me to say hello. I cleared the notification from my screen without reading the text, and then I did the unthinkable. I powered my phone off and tossed it onto my bed.

“Fuck you,” I snarled at the phone. Or possibly at Daniel MacLean. It was so hard to tell. Benedick darted under the couch at the sound of my voice, and who could blame him. I wanted to hide from my own anger. Tears stung my eyes, and it was hard to draw a good deep breath. “Fuck you!” Now that I’d gotten a taste for the word, I couldn’t stop saying it. I wanted to scream it until my throat was raw.

So much for a relaxing night in. I was too angry to sleep, and too keyed up to do anything relaxing. After the third lap of my small apartment, pacing off my nervous energy, I stopped to straighten up my little bookcase. Then I cleared the clutter off my kitchen table. A couple laps later I dug out the broom and dustpan. By one in the morning my place sparkled, and I’d exhausted myself. Just as I fell facedown into bed, sinking into sleep, I remembered I’d told Emily I’d drop by her place for that wedding stuff. Ugh. I fumbled in the blankets for my phone and turned it on.

More texts from Liar MacLean:


Hope you’re having a great . . .


In a few days we’ll be on the road to Maryland. I think . . .


Wow, you must be busy this Saturday night. Usually you . . .


Stacey, is everything okay? Text me back when you . . .



Nope, nope, nope, and nope.

I cleared all the notifications with stabby fingers, leaving the texts unread. Then I set my alarm and pulled the covers over my head. I’d talk to Emily about all this tomorrow, I thought, as everything faded around the edges again and sleep crept in. Maybe some good old-fashioned girl talk could help me solve this.

If I got any more text notifications that night, I slept through them. Which was what they deserved.