Page 19 of It's Complicated

“Gosh, Archibald, you’re such a buzzkill.” He inches his chin toward the garage in front of the practice where we have reserved parking spaces, both for us and our patients. “Walk you to your car?”

“Sure,” I say.

Our parking spots are in the same order as our offices. Jace’s sleek Mercedes on the left, Aiden’s now-missing, luxury SUV in the middle, and my Tesla on the right.

Jace walks me all the way to the driver’s door.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow at dinner. Have fun trying on dresses and send me pictures.”

He jokingly waggles his eyebrows.

Still, a tingle of excitement zaps down my spine at the idea of posing in front of a mirror for him.

“You want to tag along? I’m sure we could find a cute dress for you to try on.”

“I wouldn’t want to upstage the bride—or the bridesmaids.”

Barely able to suppress a smile, I roll my eyes and open my door. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”

I get in the car.

“Sweet dreams, Lola,” Jace says, closing the door for me.

His last words are kind of prophetic. At home, I curl into bed, slithering under the covers in a position that won’t disturb any of the three cats currently occupying the bed—Chewie opted to sleep on the couch alone.

As I settle in, I’m still a little over-excited from the night’s happenings but also bone-tired. I crave an undisturbed sleep, but as soon as I close my eyes, the sexy dreams start. And for the first time in fifteen years, they’re not about Aiden.

8

LORI

The Perfect Day. Even the name of the bridal shop is cheesy. I lock my car and sigh, preparing myself to enter enemy territory. I don’t have many female friends, the few I made in college and that I still keep in touch with, have scattered all over the country after graduation. And with Aiden and Jace both here in Chicago with me, I got lazy and never saw the point of branching out.

Plus, men are simpler. Less easily offended, more straightforward, less complicated. And I’m not a tomboy, but I’m not that girly either. On a scale of one to ten, my femininity is at a solid six, seven when I make an effort. Kirsten is an eleven. Kirsten and her bridal party combined are six figures.

I push the door of the shop open and my entrance is announced by the tah-dah-da-dah notes of the wedding march, immediately followed by a high-pitched screech that quickly reaches dog-hearing-only frequencies.

“Lori,” Kirsten greets me. “You made it.”

As if I had a choice.

The bride-to-be loops an arm with mine and leans in conspiratorially. “Everyone’s so jealous of you.”

“Me?”

“Yah-ah girl, all my friends had their eyes set on the best man, my sister, too.”

I don’t even have to fake the cringe reaction.

“And now he’s taken!” I reply, unable to keep a little venom from spilling into my words.

I’ve never considered myself possessive, but apparently, I was wrong.

Kirsten chuckles. “Yeah, don’t worry, hon, I told all my friends Jace is off-limits. A few hearts broke, but that’s life. Come, we have a private room”—she pulls me along—“I want to introduce you to the others.”

She must mean the lovely women who are after my boyfriend.Fakeboyfriend. Whatever.

We turn a corner and enter a small suite equipped with a rose-velvet couch, an armchair in the same material, a pedestal, and, behind it, a human-sized trifold mirror. Two other women are already inside, sipping champagne out of crystal glasses.

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