Page 69 of The Invitation
“You’re technically employed by me.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “Well, the company I work for, but whatever.”
I sit up, my body feeling heavy. “What are you doing here in the middle of the day?”
“Just checking on you.” Her smile is as bright as the strand of pearls around her neck. “Myla said the footage she’s gotten so far from your two dates is perfect, by the way. You haven’t really texted me much, so I thought you might need a face-to-face bestie sesh.”
I smile at her.
“So, how’s it going?” she asks.
I get up, wishing I could get out of this conversation. There’s no way to pull it off. If I try to change the subject away from Ripley, it’ll send a red flag shooting to the sky. I’m always happy and free to talk shit about him.
“We talked on the phone last night,” I say. “You already know. It’s going fine.”
“I know you said that. But I wanted to see your face when you said it.”
My hand stalls over my dresser. “Why?”
“A couple of reasons,” she says. “One, Myla said the two of you are, in her words,absolute firetogether.”
I find a pair of random earrings on the dresser and put them in my ears.
“Myla said it’s such a natural back-and-forth that editing is going to be so much easier than she feared,” Sutton says.
Really?“Did you tell her it’s because we can’t stand each other?”
“I did. She found that interesting. And the second reason I wanted to see your face is because you haven’t exactly called me screaming about him. That, my friend, is a bit suspicious.”
My body stiffens. “Yeah, well, he behaves because a camera is in front of him. He’s professional. I’ll say that about him.”
Except that he nearly kissed me … twice.
Flames spiral through me as I think about the first time he nearly kissed me at Ruma. The flames burn hotter as I remember his face just before he lowered his mouth towardmine at the rink. There was no camera then, and his gaze was without the promise of mischief.
I’d give anything for this feeling to be real—to feel this alive. I haven’t felt anything about anyone in such a long time. Even with Donovan, things felt blah. I didn’t even realize it until I compared it to what I’m feeling now.
Talking about my father isn’t something I do for fun, and I never share stories about him that make me feel sad. I don’t even discuss those things with Mom—she doesn’t even know the skating story. So, why did I share it with the man who can’t stand to be around me most of the time?
Is it because I was anxious, and I talk too much when I’m nervous? Did I tell him those things because I know once this is over, I’ll never have to talk to him—about anything—again? Or was it because once we were on the ice, I felt safe?
I dreamed last night, remembering things I used to want to do. Things I wanted to see … places I wanted to go. I woke up happy and inspired.
I woke up feeling like me.
“Are you okay?” Sutton asks.
Her words make me jump. “Me? Yeah. I was just thinking about whether I had any snacks to offer you.”
She laughs, standing. “It’s you, Georgia. Of course, you have snacks somewhere.”
“Let’s see what I have.”
She follows me into the kitchen, regaling me with tales of work that bleed into wedding planning. Then she transitions into potential honeymoon spots. She talks so fast that I can’t get a word in edgewise.
I pour us each a glass of sweet tea while she finishes her monologue.
“Oh,” she says, stopping only to take a sip. “Tate came over last night with Carys.”
“Hey, now. Don’t get cute on me. I’m the best friend.”
