“Katharine.” His eyes trap mine. It hurts to hold his gaze; he sees too much. All my jagged, bleeding edges. “Are you all right?”
No, I’m not all right.
You’ve got a gorgeous blonde staying over for sleepovers and I’m being sued by my own mother.
Oh, and did I mention the fake relationship, stalkerazzi, and accidental pregnancy?
I am most certainly not all right.
“I’m absolutely fine.” My smile is frozen on my face. “But I really do have to go now.”
“Katharine—”
“Wy!” Caroline calls from the kitchen. “Do you have almond milk?”
“That’s your cue.” I swallow hard and turn to yank open the door.
“Wait, Katharine—”
I step onto to porch before he can grab me again, but — glutton for punishment that I am — I can’t resist a final glance back in his direction before the door swings shut between us. His mouth is a flattened line; his eyes are flooded with so many terrifying emotions, I could drown in them.
“See you around, Wyatt Hastings.”
His mouth opens to say something else, but I’m already walking away. It takes all my resolve to keep the tears from leaking out as I climb into my car, strap up, and start the engine. But as his mansion disappears in my rearview, so does my self-control.
I weep the whole way home.
Eight
“IthinkI put it in the wrong hole!”
- Someone who is terrible at mini-golf.
It’sthat weird stretch of time between Christmas and New Year’s, when nearly everyone in the country is off from work, spending time with family and celebrating the moments of their lives. Unless you’re me, in which case you have no family worth celebrating and your world has fallen apart around your ears.
I mope around my house for three days after the encounter with Wyatt, binge-watching the first season ofVampire High, eating the entire contents of my refrigerator, and otherwise acting like a hermit until Friday afternoon, when Harper shows up at my door demanding a girl’s night.
“I don’t feel like going out,” I protest, munching on a red pepper. Pregnancy cravings arenojoke, hand to god.
“Don’t care!” She plunks her makeup bag down on the vanity in my bathroom and grins wickedly. “I haven’t been out in ages.”
“Where’s Masters?”
“At home. I forbade him from coming — this is an old-fashioned girl’s night. We’ll eat, we’ll drink, we’ll dance, we’ll flirt shamelessly with college boys we’ll never talk to again… It’ll be great.” Her eyes turn pleading. “Comeon, Kat. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Neither of us has work tomorrow, I have a new eyeshadow palette I’m dying to try out, and you’ve got a closet full of brand new outfits justbeggingto be worn.”
I sigh. She’s got the same air of determination about her as the time she dragged me to a sample sale at a warehouse downtown at four in the morning, to get in line before every other fashionista in Los Angeles. There’s no fighting her, when she gets like this. I take comfort in the fact that at least this time I won’t have to sit on a sidewalk for three hours while my ass slowly goes numb waiting for the doors to open, all for the privilege of playing tug-of-war over clothing items I will never, ever wear but purchase anyway, just so I have something to show for my frozen butt-cheeks.
She strides into my walk-in closet, scans the many hangers, and selects a black dress she purchased for me three weeks ago, the day I handed over my wallet and gave her free range to style my wardrobe for the press tour. She came back with bag-laden arms and a shit-eating grin. I’m pretty sure my credit card was smoking, she’d swiped it so many times.
“No,” I say, eyeing the dress.
“Yes,” she counters, thrusting it at me. “You can’t wear a bra, though.”
Normally, I’d find this idea appalling. But for the past few days, my boobs have been so tender and swollen, I haven’t bothered shoving them into the torture-chambers they call bra-cups at all. So, I must admit, there’s some appeal in the idea of a dress that doesn’t require me to struggle back into one.
I eye the garment.
It walks the razor-thin line between stylish and scandalous. The back is mostly nonexistent — a racerback panel of sheer lace tapers from the shoulders all the way down the spine in a narrow strip — but the front is rather simple and remarkably pretty, with its thin straps and fitted bodice. Years of previous experience have taught me that fighting with Harper about outfits is usually a losing battle. Plus, by objecting, I run the risk of her finding something even flashier in the depths of my closet.