“You’re acting like a crazy person.”
“You’re the crazy one if you think I’ll let you get cold feet!”
“My feet are actually quite warm, I’m wearing those sheepskin L.L. Bean slippers Parker bought me for Christmas last year—”
“That’s it! I’m coming over there and kicking your ass.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “I’m going to the opening! It was a joke! Please relax. No need to kick my ass.”
Stony silence blasts across the line.
“Lila?” I suppress a laugh. “Still alive?”
“That wasnotfunny.”
“I don’t know, I thought it was pretty amusing.”
“I can still come over there and kick your ass.”
I stop laughing instantly. Lila does Krav Maga. Forfun. She could totally kick my ass.
“Sorry,” I mutter, like a five-year-old forced to apologize for kicking her sister under the table at dinner.
“Apology accepted,” she says breezily, threats of bodily harm already forgotten. “I have a dry-bar appointment atBlotonight, so I can’t help you get ready. Can I trust you to wear something scandalously hot without me there to run interference?”
“Firstly, my closet is bigger than yours. Secondly, I’ve spent twenty-four years dressing myself. I think I can manage one night without you.”
“Mhmm.” She murmurs, as though she doesn’t quite agree. “See you there. Seven. Don’t be late!”
She clicks off.
“Bye,” I say to dead air, for the second time in as many hours.
My life is so fucked.
Chapter Seven
True friends don’t judge one another.
They judge other people.
Together.
Phoebe West, ruminating on friendship.
By the time seven rolls around, nervous butterflies have taken up residence in my gut. I watch Boston drift by through tinted glass in the back seat of the town car I hired for the night and try to ignore the damned winged demons flinging themselves at my stomach lining on five-second intervals. The sun has nearly set — its dying rays turn the Charles River into a copper mirror as we drive over the bridge to Cambridge. Shifting in my seat in a vain attempt to get comfortable, my eyes absently track the movement of Harvard crew teams, their oars moving in perfect tandem, their sleek boats gliding across the gleaming surface like water bugs on a lake.
The hands on my lap are so tightly clenched, my freshly manicured nails cut crescent-moons into my palms. I can feel the fine boning of my dress pressed tight against my ribs. For a split second, I think that thin fabric might be all that’s holding my quick-beating heart inside my chest.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I know exactly why I’m nervous.
Nate.
Just the thought of seeing him sends a thrill shooting through my nerve endings, makes every fine hair on my body stand up straight, evaporates every ounce of saliva from my mouth. I’m not even near him yet, but if I close my eyes I can almost feel his presence. That dark gaze. That gritty tone. The sinuous way he moves, like a panther gliding through shadow. All coiled power and restrained strength — held in total check, but unleashed at a moment’s notice.