Page 9 of Married With Lies

“Your wife must be here tonight,” I say to him. “I’d love to meet her. When I heard you tied the knot last year I wondered if my invitation got lost in the mail.”

Keeping one eye on the woman, I get the impression she’s received some signal from her husband. All of a sudden she turns and gracefully floats away, friends in tow, the hem of her voluminous black evening gown trailing behind her.

Baylor is slow to respond. He waits until she disappears into the crowd. “Talia and I celebrated our first anniversary in July. She’s a Barrington, as in Barrington Publishing.”

That doesn’t mean dick to me.

I suppose my face looks blank because Baylor adds, “Her father owns the Boston Daily News.” He clears his throat and gets fidgety. “I would have introduced you but she’s in the middle of a little holiday reunion with her sorority sisters. You know how that goes.”

“No,” I say, totally deadpan. “How does it go?”

He continues to squirm. “I just meant that with the party and the holiday things are a little chaotic tonight.”

Who does he think he’s kidding? He doesn’t even want his wife in the same room as me. Guess I can’t really fault him for that. But I’m annoyed anyway.

“Maybe later,” I say, growing bored by the topic.

He bobs his head and relaxes a notch. “Sorry about the wedding oversight.”

“No big deal.”

“Talia handled the guest list.”

“Whatever. I’m sure I was busy that weekend anyway.”

Piano music drifts into the room above the din of voices. An elaborate rendition of Jingle Bell Rock.

I’ve done what I came here to do.

There’s no reason to stick around for much longer.

If not for memories, I’d laugh at the idea that this jerk across the table was once my best friend. The one who cut off contact shortly after starting Yale. The one who now doesn’t even want me to meet his wife.

While these thoughts roam around in my head, Baylor has been babbling about his campaign and his political plans. I’m about to interrupt him and head for the exit when my eyes catch on a shapely figure.

Hips with enough flare to grab onto. A great rack that’s just begging to be played with. All of it poured into a blue dress that I could see myself unwrapping in two seconds flat.

My eyes tick north to a pile of reddish curls doing their best to escape from a loose bun.

In an instant, all dirty thoughts disappear.

Baylor quits talking at my snort of laughter. Indignation flashes across his face, like he thinks I’m laughing at him. Maybe I would be, if I’d been listening to a fucking word he said.

I jerk my head in the direction of the girl. “Almost didn’t recognize Scraps.”

He swivels and notices the youngest Wingate sibling carefully considering the buffet selection. “She flew in yesterday. It’s been a while since she’s visited.”

I haven’t laid eyes on Mercedes Wingate, nicknamed Scraps by her family, since she collided with the awkward early teen years and was swimming in oversized hoodies with her wild red curls falling in every direction.

A lot has changed since then. Ordinarily I would appreciate the changes but there’s no way I can have hot thoughts about Bay’s little sister. She’s even younger than Luca. For crying out loud, she was the kid who’d follow us around with cookie crumbs on her face while begging us to help her save the live lobster she’d just rescued from the kitchen.

“She must be done with college by now,” I say.

“Yeah, she briefly came home after Cornell and was supposed to attend grad school at NYU. But then her independent streak got the better of her.” He shrugs. “Now she’s running some animal sanctuary in Colorado. That’s why she’s here. The small trust fund her mother left her is gone and she needs the old man to cough up some funds.” He takes another look at his sister and frowns. “She’s wasting her time.”

“What’s the problem?” I ask. “Sounds like a good cause and the Wingate family isn’t in the habit of pinching pennies.”

He shakes his head. “Not that simple. Dad’s still pissed about the way she called off her engagement.”

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