Page 42 of Across the Boards

I laugh, drawing Sarah’s attention from across the room.

“If you’re texting Carter instead of placing centerpieces, I’m going to tell him about the time you cried during a car commercial,” she calls out.

“It was a very emotional commercial about a dog and his owner!” I protest, quickly putting my phone away. “And I wasn’t texting Carter.”

“Your face says otherwise,” she retorts. “It’s doing that thing where you try not to smile but fail miserably.”

“That’s just my face contemplating ways to murder you for not warning me about Melissa Cooper.”

Sarah at least has the grace to look guilty. “She wasn’t supposed to be here until later! I swear I was going to warn you.”

“She invited me to the wives and girlfriends brunch.”

“Ouch.” Sarah winces. “What did you say?”

“That I’d rather gargle thumbtacks.”

“You did not.”

“Fine, I said I’d ‘keep it in mind,’ which is polite-person speak for ‘when hell freezes over.’”

Sarah abandons her clipboard to join me at the table. “Was she awful about the Jason thing?”

“Weirdly, no. She claimed ‘they were all on my side.’ Convenient historical revision.”

“People like being on the winning side in retrospect,” Sarah says wisely. “And you’re definitely winning the divorce. Especially now that you’re dating the hot new defenseman.”

“I’m not dating him,” I say automatically. “We’re friends.”

“Friends who text constantly, go to dinner together, exchange underwear pictures, and make each other smile like idiots?”

“Yes. Those kind of friends.”

“Whatever you say.” Sarah rolls her eyes. “You ready for dress shopping after this? I’m thinking something green to match your eyes. Or maybe red. Power color.”

“Nothing red,” I say firmly. “I’m not trying to make a statement.”

“Your existence at a hockey event is already a statement, Elle. Might as well look fabulous making it.”

She’s not wrong, but I’m not ready to admit it. “Let’s just focus on finishing these centerpieces before your committee members arrive and I have to make more awkward small talk about my love life.”

“Or lack thereof?”

“Not helping, Sarah.”

* * *

“No.”I stare at my reflection in horror. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” Sarah pouts, circling me like a fashion-obsessed shark. “It’s perfect!”

“It’s approximately three inches of fabric held together by wishful thinking!”

The dress in question—a slinky, backless number in emerald green—is undeniably gorgeous. It’s also the least “me” thing I’ve ever put on my body.

“It’s Versace,” Sarah says, as if that explains everything.

“It’s public indecency with a designer label.”

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