Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(38)

Throughout all of this, Ansel shakes his head quickly, murmuring, “No, no, no,” and reassuring me, “She’s fine.”

“She is, I swear,” Lola urges, moving over to me to sit on the floor by my legs. “Honey, Mia is fine.”

But in the remaining tension, the mental calculation isn’t that difficult to make: “Harlow’s not fine, though, is she?”

The awkward silence returns, heavier this time, and I glance over at Finn.

He gives a casual wave of his hand. “She’ll get over it.”

And f*ck, I do not want to be the reason a girlfriend of mine has something to get over. But at the same time, it rankles me a little that she’s white-knighting it for Mia, when, by all accounts—including her own—Mia doesn’t need it.

Maybe Lola sees this reaction cross my face, because she puts a hand on my knee. “London. It’s just what Harlow does. React first, think later.”

Finn snorts.

“We were all so close growing up,” she explains. “And when they broke up, it was weird how fast Luke sort of . . . moved on. We all got into the habit of silently disliking anyone who slept with him, like they were the ones changing him, like it wasn’t his decision.”

I look back over at her, giving her a wary smile. “That’s insane. These women aren’t black widows hunting an innocent guy. Luke is in charge of his game.”

“I know,” she says, wincing as she nods. “It’s just a habit because old Luke was so loyal and committed.” When she says this, my heart does a painful little dive. Despite everything else I’ve seen, that version of Luke isn’t very hard to imagine. “But maybe you can see why it’s weird for us? I mean, not for me,” she adds quickly. “Honestly, London, I think it’s kind of cool. It just took Mia a beat to feel that way, too, and by then she’d called Harlow—”

“Her first mistake,” Finn adds dryly.

“—and Harlow got protective,” Lola finishes with an apologetic shrug. “It’s her thing.”

“I get it,” I tell them, and I do. But although I don’t want anyone feeling like I’ve mis-stepped somehow, I also don’t want to feel like I have to defend myself for sleeping with a guy I had no way of knowing broke up with my friend over four years ago. And the overlapping way that they’re all reassuring me does nothing to quell the outsider vibe I’m getting.

“I really don’t want things to be weird,” I tell them.

“They’re not,” Lola says, and then revises: “I mean, if they are, it’s just a blip. Seriously, you wouldn’t have even known about it if you hadn’t come out here before we left this morning, because I swear Harlow will be over it in a couple of hours.”

She means this to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I “wouldn’t have even known about it” because no one would have bothered to tell me. Like some mess of mine would have been cleaned up, negotiated away during their breakfast UN summit or something.

“Okay, cool,” I say, getting up. I move to the kitchen and rinse out my mug. “But seriously, tell me if there’s something I need to say to either of them.”

Everyone nods with sympathetic enthusiasm at this—they know how scary it can be to be on the receiving end of Harlow’s anger—but surely they can’t really imagine what it’s like to be me on the receiving end of Harlow’s anger. She doesn’t know me the same way. I might just be a temporary part of this group, after all. She might not feel the need to get over it.

Once again I curse the bum deal of having a long-term boyfriend suck up all of my social life for years and then cheat on me, leaving me isolated as hell. I have a hundred acquaintances, and few true friends. Is it me? Am I a surface skimmer, relying on a dimpled smile and small talk to make people feel at ease, to trick them into thinking they know me?

The only person I have to call and process this with is Ruby, and she’s so far away and knows this group even less well than I do. The one person around here who sometimes seems to understand me best is Not-Joe—Dylan—and I didn’t even know his actual name until a couple of weeks ago.

But that’s not entirely true: Luke seems to get me, better than I’d like to let him believe. Unfortunately, he’s flaky, has douchey friends, is a womanizer, and—after this morning’s drama?—is completely off-limits.



* * *



THE LAST RAYS of sunlight cut through the entryway to Fred’s as I open the door the next night. I haven’t worked here that long, but after a few shifts in a row at Bliss, Fred’s feels familiar, comforting. I’m glad to be back.

Fred is behind the bar when I get there, and he looks up, smiling as I near him.

“We missed you around here, kid,” he says. “The other bartenders are all scared of me. It’s not the same without someone here to give me crap.”

I laugh as I tie my apron around my waist. “I’m glad my insubordination tickles you.”

“You have fun at your fancy new place?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” I say with a shrug and a little smile, and Fred already knows me well enough to leave it at that.

I start my usual routine and check my station, jotting down the things I need to bring from the back, what needs to be refreshed. “Been busy today?” I ask.