Page 55 of The Fake Date Deal

“Need it for what?”

“You know, he loves me. He loves me not. You don’t need a daisy to tell you that.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” She tossed the daisy aside. “Why are you even here? When did you sleep last?”

“To help with the gala, and some time last night?” I rolled my eyes, hoping she’d take a hint. Instead, she beckoned a waiter.

“Grab us some drinks?”

“I don’t need a drink,” I groused, but the waiter was gone. Gabriella surveyed the banquet hall much as I’d done.

“It looks good,” she said. “You don’t need to change it.”

“No, I do, now I think of it. It’ll be more festive. People can circulate indoors and out. We’ll set up a bar out there, make it less stuffy. The more fun they’re having, the more they’ll donate.”

“And you’re doing the flowers yourself because…?”

“Because they looked sloppy.” I arranged six more roses into a perfect bouquet, pink trails of sweet peas spilling over the vase. A dusting of baby’s breath finished the ensemble. Gabriella leaned over me and poked at the blooms.

“Well, now they look uptight. Kind of like you.”

“Are you going to help, or are you just here to heckle?”

“I’m here to get you out of the event planners’ faces.” She grabbed my arm and tried to tug me down beside her. “You’re driving them crazy — isn’t she, Donna?”

But Donna didn’t answer, and I saw she was leaving, striding away from our burgeoning drama.

“Mother asked me to help,” I said.

“With the seating chart, yeah. But the chefs are complaining you’ve ruined their menu.”

“Not ruined. I?—”

“And you’re moving the tables and playing with flowers, and what was all that about napkin rings? No, don’t run away. What are you doing?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the strength. The waiter glided back and set out two champagne flutes. He poured Gabriella’s bubbly, and then he poured mine.

“Drink it,” Gabriella said.

I took a small sip.

“No, drink it. Drink more.”

I drained half my glass. The bubbles fizzed in my head. I closed my eyes as the room spun: when had I last eaten?

“You should talk to him,” she said.

I snorted. “No way.”

“You know how men are, with their big, stupid egos. I’m betting he said that to try and save face. So it wouldn’t look like you dumped him when you?—”

“He compared me to fruit.”

Gabriella winced, sucked her teeth. Drank more champagne. “Okay, that sucks. I won’t deny that. But if you care for him?—”

“I don’t. We were fake.”

“So you’re running yourself ragged, messing with flowers? And Mother said you were asking about the art show next month? You’re doing that too? Because — why would you do that?”

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