Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(70)

Marsha is next on my list, and it’s a conversation I’m dreading nearly as much as the upcoming dinner with my parents. As I dial her number, I’m half hoping she doesn’t pick up, but she grabs the phone on the first ring.

“Hey, hon.”

I take a deep breath. “Hey, Marsha. How’s it going?”

“Eh, you know. Just about to head in for my evening shift. Andy pulled the short straw this week, but her boyfriend threw a hissy fit because it’s their anniversary today, so she asked me to swap with her. How’s it going with you? What are you up to this weekend? Tonya and I were going to hit up a couple of bars on Saturday. Want to join us? You don’t have a performance, do you?”

“No, but actually, about this Saturday…” I grip the phone tighter. “I have some news.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a guy I’ve been seeing for a while. Kind of on and off.”

“Really?” Marsha’s voice perks up. “Who? Not that red-headed bodybuilder from your band, is it?”

“Rory? No, not at all.”

“Oh, good. Because Tonya really liked him and thought it might be mutual. Who then? Have I met him?”

“No, you haven’t.” I take another deep breath. “It’s gotten very serious between us, though.”

“Really?” Her interest level is clearly spiking. “Serious how?”

I brace myself and rattle out, “We’re getting married this Saturday.”

“You’re what?”

The cat is out of the bag, so I repeat as calmly as I can, “I’m getting married. This Saturday. And if you can, I’d love for you to be there.”

“This is a joke, right?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand. “No. We decided against a big formal ceremony, so we’re just inviting a few people. It’s going to be at Silver Lake Country Club. You know, over in Orland Park?”

“Uh-huh. And I’m going on Dancing with the Stars.”

“Marsha… I’m not joking.”

There are a few moments of heavy silence. Then: “You’re getting married?”

“Yes. This Saturday.”

“What the fuck? Are you serious? When did you two meet and how? What’s his name? How come you never mentioned him to me?”

“It’s a long story. We were on and off for a while, and then—”

“What do you mean for a while? How long is a while? Weeks? Months?”

I wince internally. “Um, months. Definitely months.” Technically, this October will mark two years since Peter waterboarded me in my kitchen, but in terms of actual time spent together, it’s probably closer to seven or eight months in total.

“Wow. Okay. Just… wow.” Marsha falls silent for a second, then asks in a vaguely hurt tone, “Why didn’t you say anything? You know we all thought you were single after… well, you know.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Because we were so on and off, I didn’t think it was that serious at first. He traveled a lot for work. But now he’s done with that, so we decided to go ahead and take the next step.”

“And the next step is marriage? What happened to just dating and living together? Sara, hon…” Her voice takes on a concerned note. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

This is the hard part, because unlike Phil and my new coworkers, Marsha has known me for years. She knows I always look before I leap, and she also knows what happened with Peter.

Well, the darker parts of it, at least.

“Everything is fine.” I put as much cheerfulness into my voice as I can. “We’re just excited that we can finally be together, and we see no reason to wait. Neither one of us wants a big ceremony, so—”

“Okay, okay, whoa. Back up the truck. You still haven’t told me his name or what he does.”

I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “His name is Peter Garin. He used to be a security consultant, but he just retired from that field.”

“Peter Garin? Wait a minute…” Marsha’s voice grows tense. “Wasn’t that Russian assassin who kidnapped you named Peter something?”

“Sokolov—and please, let’s not go there.” Mostly because I don’t want to lie to her any more than I have to. “Anyway, as I was telling you, we’re going to have a small wedding this Saturday, and we’d love it if you could attend. But I know you said you have other plans, so if you can’t—”

“Oh, please, Sara. I’ll obviously be there. The fucking bars can wait. But I’m still confused. Your guy’s name is Peter too? And what kind of name is Garin? Where is he from?”

I drum my fingers on the desk. “He’s from… kind of all over. But he was born in Eastern Europe.” I can’t lie about this; Peter’s accent, faint though it is, clearly marks him as being from that part of the world.

That must be why he chose a Russian-sounding last name instead of something like Smith or Johnson.

“What?” Marsha sounds on the verge of flipping out. “Where in Eastern Europe?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Russia.”

“You’re kidding me, right? Tell me you’re kidding.”