Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Elle smiled at my effort to take an interest in this man-shaped tit. “We’re coming early to hit some of the sights like the Empire State Building and maybe catch a show at Madison Square Garden.”
She was coming early to catch a show with Paul? I would also be there early, likely taking care of all the last minute things that needed to get done. It would be nice to have my maid of honor there with me, but so far Elle had no time to visit New York so I just assumed she’d be arriving last minute.
Yet, for Paul, she was wide open?
I smiled tightly while swallowing down a gulp of my margarita.
I hadn’t confirmed Paul’s name on the guest list yet. I mean, it wasn’t like adding one more person was going to create a financial strain. We had the room. But I’d hesitated because of Barrett.
Now my gut was telling me not to invite him for other reasons. I instinctively felt the need to erect boundaries, but my heart demanded I do everything to make Elle happy, so I was torn.
I wanted to be happy for Elle. Truly, I did. But she was blowing me off left and right, telling me she had no time to take off from work or school, except when Paul was involved she became a total hypocrite. She had all the time in the world.
Maybe I was being selfish. Or maybe it was normal to expect your best friend to make time for the wedding plans as the maid of honor. I didn’t think I was a bridezilla. I’d made no outlandish demands. I was paying for all her expenses. This was the problem with being an over-thinker. I never knew if my feelings were valid or wrong.
I could feel myself melting down and I was almost out of margarita.
I needed to say something. “It’s going to be a really busy week. I don’t know how much time there will be to go sight-seeing before the wedding.” She was supposed to come to New York to support me, not to catch a production of The Lion King or impress Paul.
“Exactly. It’ll be nice to have Paul there to help me with everything.”
Help her with everything? What about me, the bride?
What the hell was going on?
As I sat there, stewing over my margarita, I honestly wondered if I wanted her there at all. She was acting so shitty and down-playing what was going to be one of the most important days of my life. And god forbid I say that, because she’d only call me self-centered again.
I wanted to leave. I no longer cared about getting to know Paul or waiting for my food. I just wanted to get the hell out of that booth and scream into a pillow.
“A wedding’s what? Two hours?” Paul said. “Then the party. If you can’t squeeze me into the guest list, I can always crash after the cake’s cut.” He laughed.
Elle leveled her stare with mine, using her BFF-telepathy to strong-arm me. “Rayne can fit you in. Can’t you, Ray?” She smiled sweetly, but there was no sweetness banked in her eyes.
The wedding was a monumental, life-altering moment in my life, and Paul had just summed it up as a two-hour party. Hurt and angry, I forced a smile. “Sure, anything for you, Elle. We’ll just order more red plastic cups.”
Dear God, what was happening to us?
Thankfully, the waitress cut the tension by delivering our food, but once we started eating the table grew awkwardly silent—Hale’s knife scratching against the cheap china and my deep-fried cheese oozing under the judgmental stare of Paul and his ridiculously large arms.
“Oh, they put dressing on my salad.” Elle flipped a few lettuce leaves, noting the way the greens were slathered in what looked like buttermilk ranch.
“Nah, babe, you aren’t eating that.” Paul pushed the plate away from her the way a human might take something from a pet and I frowned. “Excuse me,” he practically shouted to the nearest server.
“That’s not our waitress,” I hissed, mortified by how uncomfortable this dinner was getting.
“Can you grab our waitress?” Paul shouted, disrupting the conversation of diners seated around us.
I wanted to crawl under the table. This meal couldn’t end fast enough.
Our waitress returned. “How is everyth—”
“Yeah, we ordered no dressing. Hers is slathered in crap.”
I kept my eyes on my plate, discomfort ruining my appetite.
“I’m sorry. I’ll have them remake the salad and be right back with a new one.”
“We’ll just wait.” Paul folded his big arms, and as she hurried away he muttered, “Because making a salad is hard.”
My stomach was instantly upset. “Want one of my mozzarella sticks, Elle?”
“Thanks.”
“What are you doing?”
The table froze, as did Elle’s partially extended hand. I held out my olive branch of a cheese stick as it wafted the delicious scent of battered bread and gooey goodness across the table.