Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(18)

I close my eyes as the conversation at Fred’s the other night comes back to me.

Mia, introducing me to her husband.

Husband.

She looks older, but not physically. It’s in her eyes, the way they’re steadier now, they don’t blink away as readily. She didn’t stutter or prolong a single word. She introduced him—I couldn’t even hear his name over the sound of blood pounding in my ears—and I was . . .

I was horrible.

“Husband? You’re . . . married?” I’d asked, dumbfounded. We don’t run in the same circles anymore. I knew she was seeing someone, but married? The information floored me. Literally tossed my lungs onto the floor.

Her husband stepped closer to her side as she told me, “We got married in June.”

Ignoring him, I asked her, “After knowing him how long?”

“Not that it’s your business,” she said with a tiny smile up at him, “but, yeah, we were in Vegas and—it just happened.”

I felt my face tighten in disgust. No, not disgust. Hurt. “Seriously? A cliché Vegas wedding, Mia? There really is nothing left of the girl I knew, is there?”

The memory of her expression after I’d said it makes me feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest.

“Seriously, you guys,” I say, shaking my head to clear it. “It was nothing. We ran into each other, I was rude.”

“Rude?” Mom asks, and God love her for seeming unable to imagine such a thing.

“Mia is married,” Margot says in a scandalized hiss. “To a French guy. A law instructor at UCSD.”

“How wonderful!” Mom practically shouts. “I need to send them a gift.”

“Yes, good idea,” I agree dryly. “You guys, I’m starving. Can I go?”

“You should call Mia,” Margot says.

“I’m not calling Mia, you brat.”

“Are you eating out, Luke?” Mom asks. “Why don’t you just come home for dinner? I made chicken and rice.”

“Bye, Mom, I love you. Margot, you’re dead.”

I hang up.



* * *



I STEP INTO the restaurant, dodging other customers in my peripheral vision as I scroll through my texts. Just as I get in line to order, I hear a tiny snort and look up, catching the whip of blond hair as the snorter-in-question turns toward the counter.

So I’m left facing the back of a blond head that looks awfully familiar.

I pocket my phone. “Hello, Amsterdam.”

I didn’t expect to see London here, in line at my favorite Mexican joint only a few miles from work. But here she is, and my heart does something unfamiliar: it sort of jumps and then hammers, as if I’m particularly excited to see her.

She looks over her shoulder at me, and then tilts her head down as she does the lengthy inspection of my entire body. “Nice suit.”

“Same,” I tell her. Holy shit, I mean I’ve seen her naked, but catching her in a bikini top, little cutoff shorts, and flip-flops at sunset makes me feel moderately dizzy. “But who forgot to tell you it’s cold outside?”

Tilting her head, she asks, “It’s someone’s job to tell me when it’s cold?”

I open my mouth and close it, realizing I have nothing witty to say. She turns back to the counter with a little smile, leaning forward to order. I can see the curve of her ass peeking out beneath her shorts. Honestly, I could wait in line all damn day with a view like this.

While she waits for her change, she turns a little to look back at me. “I don’t think I know what you do during the day, because I would not have predicted the suit.”

“What would you have predicted?”

“A Speedo?”

“Well,” I say, “the one time I wore a Speedo to court I was fined.”

She fights a smile, and studies me. “You’re a lawyer?”

“Easy, high roller. I’m twenty-three and a half; still only a clerk. I’m applying to law school.”

I watch her fight a groan. “Of course you are.”

“I mean, it’s not surfing all day and pouring drinks all night, but it’s a start.”

Fuck. That was sort of dickish.

I can tell how hard it is for Sunshine London to be outright dismissive of this, but she manages a tiny little f*ck you smile as she turns away, grabbing a few cups of salsa and making her way over to the exit. She pushes the door open with her ass, and places the salsa on a table just outside. The words Worthy Opponent flash in my head before she turns and comes back inside to wait for her food.

When she looks up at me, her full mouth curls in a smile. I study her blond hair, freckles, and the whole length of her: forever-long legs in her tiny shorts, breasts somehow contained by the triangles of her bikini top. My attention returns to her face and I catch a glimpse of her open, unguarded expression—some vulnerability or curiosity about what I’m thinking—before she slips her defense back into place.

Her number is called and she picks up an enormous plate piled with some unidentifiable food. Holding it up to her nose, she inhales deeply. “I come here for the carne asada fries.” With another little smile, she says, “See you later!” and heads back out to her table.

This girl, I swear.