“Please don’t try to play matchmaker.”
“I’m doing no such thing.”
I stare at her doubtfully.
“Honestly! My intentions are pure.” She grimaces. “He’s lonely and sad, you’re lonely and sad… This way you can be lonely and sadtogether.”
“Uh huh. No other reasons?”
“Nope.” Her lips twitch. “Though you must admit… the man isn’t exactly a chore to look at…”
“Ugh! I knew this was a set up!”
“Oh, come on, E — you’re stubborn, but you’re not blind. Alden looks like… well, like one of the archangels fell off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and wandered north.”
I roll my eyes. “So?”
“So, weren’t you just complaining about being bored out of your mind? This is what I’d call… a creative solution to that problem. In my experience, there’s nothing like a toe-curling orgasm to change your whole outlook.” Her eyes narrow. “Unless there’s some reason you can’t go out with him. Something you’re not telling me.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip.
Dammit.
The last thing I want to do is hang out with Alden. Between Carter avoiding me like the plague and Owen stalking me via apologetic voicemail messages, the men in my life are already far too complicated. I certainly don’t need to addmoretestosterone to that equation. But I’m not sure how to make Chloe understand that without revealing other details I’d rather keep to myself.
“Look, I’m sure he’s very nice,” I hedge. “If he happens to swing by in a few weeks, maybe I can make time to see him, but—”
“Great! He’s coming over tonight at six.”
I gasp. “Chloe!”
“What?”
“Tell me you’re joking!”
“I could, but that would be a lie.”
“You’re a monster, you know that?!”
She’s totally unperturbed, smiling as she flips her thumb against her lighter and watches it flame to life. “Did I mention it’s five thirty right now?”
“WHAT?!
“Yeah. Do you plan to wear that on your date?”
Date?!
In a sudden panic, I glance down at myself.
There’s a coffee stain on my cashmere sweater and the loose-fitting pair of boyfriend jeans I’m wearing look like something I found in the reject pile of a thrift shop. There are frumpy sheepskin slippers on my feet. Not an ounce of makeup on my face. Hair piled atop my head in a messy bun. Bright blue manicure—sorry, Lady Morrell, I’m a rebel— chipping off most of my nails.
Basically, I look homeless.
“I hate you,” I hiss at Chloe, scampering to my feet and taking off like a bullet.
“Go get ‘em, tiger!” she calls after me. I can hear her laughing like a damn hyena even as I barrel out of the greenhouse and head straight for my suite.
Chapter Seventeen