Page 6 of Wild Card

“Right?” Out front, Mattie shifted. There was the pop of a blush compact. The snap of a lipstick tube. “She has to know how to walk a straight line in heels by this point. Isn’t that just a basic thing, like learning to shave your legs or brush your teeth?”

“Well, she works at the base. She’s in HR—or whatever they call that in the military. Maybe the work keeps her on her feet a lot, and—”

“Heels aren’t outlawed on military bases, V.” Another feline sniff. More makeup utensils being unsheathed. “I have seen Top Gun. Whose side are you on?”

“Why are there sides?”

Jen dipped a silent yet emphatic nod. Her thought exactly.

“Perhaps because thorny didn’t pull her little face plant until she walked into the salon and saw Sam sitting there—with me?”

Jen was glad jaw drops could be noiseless too.

“Wait. You think she’s making a play for Sam?”

“What else would she be doing?” All the makeup clattered back into the purse at once, perfectly timed so Jen could at least get out a gasp. “Come on. Nobody’s that much of a train wreck just because.”

Viv hummed. “Good point. Wait. You’re not actually worried about this, are you?”

“Bitch, please. The day I sweat a drop about little Jennifer Thorne is the day I buy a cat and look for assisted living. Let’s get real. Even if I wasn’t in the picture this weekend, Captain Mackenna wouldn’t be tapping on that girl’s door—or anything else of hers. The little one is way, way out of her league.”

“True…”

But the catch in Viv’s voice was blatant.

“What?” Mattie charged.

“It’s just…we said the same thing about Tess and Dan.”

“Which supports my theory further.”

“Oh?”

“Nature’s not going to allow another lightning strike under their geeky little rock so soon.”

Viv’s laughter echoed through the bathroom, a more than ample mask for the wince sneaking past Jen’s lips—accompanied by the sting behind her eyes.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was wrong with her? She already agreed with everything they said, so why was she letting it scrape out her chest like a rusty razor blade?

“So what’s your plan of attack now?”

Fortunately, Viv asked it as they exited the bathroom. Jen didn’t have to hear Mattie’s response—not that the damage wasn’t already done. Her anger reared first. Sam was not the object of any “plan”. He was better than that, damn it—at least to her. But who was she to assume he’d hate that? He was a man. A lot of man. Men liked that “plan of attack” shit, especially when orchestrated by a blonde with breasts and thighs they could get buried in.

All too fast, that brought on the image of Sam doing exactly that—with Mattie.

The tears returned.

Hard, heavy, and fast.

She folded her arms atop the vanity, sank her head over them, and let the flood come.

After several minutes of the pity party, she pulled in a messy sniff. Raised her head. Groaned aloud at her raccoon eyes in the mirror, which were fixable to a point thanks to the accessories in her bag, but no longer presentable for an occasion like her friend’s wedding rehearsal dinner. Her cry stains could only be reversed by time. And solitude.

She pulled out her phone then tapped out a fast—and lame—message to Tess, bullshitting that her ankle had twisted worse than she feared, and she would ice it to be ready for tomorrow. Thank God Tess had opted simply for three bridesmaids instead of picking a maid of honor, excusing Jen from any blatant toasting duties at the dinner.

Now all she had to do was get her ass into the elevator and back up to her room.

For a second, she was sorely tempted to just head home instead, but Tess and Dan had insisted on treating everyone in the wedding party to a couple of nights in the hotel, being pampered in the luxury for which the Nyte was known across the world. And yeah, a spread of decadent room service fare sure as hell sounded better than a pint of Häagen-Dazs for dinner—though she was sure the ice cream would make its way into her order. Probably between the long bubble bath of self-pity and the hours of denying her humiliation by getting lost in a good book, instead. She had at least four in progress on her e-reader right now. The two historical romances were out, and so was the tormented firefighter, but the space opera shape-shifter tale felt like a good choice. Nothing like something with a lot of teeth and fur to bring empathy to what she really felt like doing to Mattie Lesange right now—or what she’d really feel like doing in a few hours, when she knew the woman would be slipping a room key into Sam’s back pocket. Oh God, she hoped the hotel hadn’t blocked all their rooms next to each other.

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