Page 12 of Bordeaux Bombshell
Hitching one leg up, I continue using both hands, one circling and rubbing in the exact spot I know will get me off the fastest—damn Nate for knowing that too—while the other guides the vibrator in and out of my wet pussy. Every time my thoughts flick to Nate’s long fingers or his brown eyes looking up at me, I force myself to imagine the football scene from the newTop Gunmovie. Hot, sweaty faceless men with abs and asses I could bounce a quarter off. Miles Teller doing a victory shimmy in slow motion—stupid mustache and all.
But whenever I get close, my mental image switches to Nate grinning at me across a bar seven years ago, his drink lifted in acknowledgment as I flirt with some rando, his eyes locked on me. His lips skating across the skin of my exposed shoulder in the shade of the grapevines farthest from his house. His fingers dancing up my thighs as he confesses it’s always been me.
My orgasm shivers through my body, but it doesn’t bring me any relief. “Goddammit. Fuck that motherfucking asshole and his shitty, smug ball sac.” I flip the sheets off me with a frustrated cry, tempted to throw my vibrator across the room, but my neighbors already hate me, and it’s not the sex toy’s fault my brain is trying to ruin my life.
Jackie and my mom giggle at something behind their menus while our server raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m so sorry, I would like a mimosa, please.”
Mom slaps her menu down. “We would also like mimosas. And bacon.”
“Would you like to order now?” The server looks us over, her pen hovering above her notepad. Heat creeps up my cheeks as my mom and her best friend act like idiots in public. Again.
“No, no.” Jackie waves a hand. “We’re not ready to order. The bacon is our appetizer.”
Christ.
With a nod, the server leaves me alone with them. “So, how come I scored an invite to your weekly brunch and bitch?”
Mom and Jackie have been meeting up for Tuesday morning brunch since I was a kid. Of course, I was never invited to join them while I was at school. Even now, I rarely get invited, despite making my own work hours. But now that I’m here, I’m not so sure I want to be. I can’t tell if they’re getting ready to stage an intervention for me or plan a heist.
“We’re planning a bridal shower for Maggie, but we want it to be good. Up to her standards, you know?” Since Maggie is an event planner, I do know.
When June was pregnant with Olive, we held the baby shower at the winery, stringing up some crepe paper and store-bought decorations before calling it a day. Not that we didn’t put in effort; it’s just that no one in our family is much of a girly girl, and I didn’t have any girlfriends to help me do better.
As a kid, I’d spent so much time chasing after Kel and Nate that by the time I got to high school, I didn’t really know how to be friends with girls. And most of them avoided me once they realized Kel and Nate’s protective streaks made it impossible for any of the other boys at school to get close. Despite being pretty, I had a reputation as boy repellent.
“Why don’t we ask Ophelia to help?” Surely, Maggie’s younger sister has helped her plan parties plenty of times.
“She and Philip just got settled in South Carolina, so I don’t want to ask her for help now,” Mom reminds me. I shouldn’t need the reminder. Ophie and I are closer in age, but since theonly impulsive thing she’s ever done in her life was get married on a trip to Vegas, we don’t actually have much in common.
He was her best friend for years before they did it, so it’s not like it was even technically that impulsive. Maggie and I are much more similar in that regard, although she has two kids to take care of, and I don’t even have a cactus.
“Fine. Do you guys have a date in mind? A color or a theme? Anything?”
Once they’ve decided on their food order, we hammer out a few details about the shower. Getting a straight answer out of either of them is an exercise in frustration. You would think a pair of sixty-year-olds could act like adults for longer than five minutes at a time, but apparently that assumption means nothing in the face of being best friends for over twenty years.
Just one more crime to add to Nate’s list, really—if he and Kel hadn’t become friends, then our parents wouldn’t have either. And then I wouldn’t be stuck seeing his stupid face all the time. And I wouldn’t be babysitting a pair of grown-ass women who had too many mimosas on a Tuesday morning in April.
Thank God no one said anything about the shower being co-ed. And we are definitelynothaving it at Sunshine.
Giggling, my mom excuses herself from the table, leaving me with Jackie. Who looks at me with suddenly sober eyes and a raised eyebrow.
“So, tell me what it’s going to take for you and Nate to patch things up.”
The change in topic is too quick for me to stop the disgusted noise that escapes me at the mention of his name. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious.” Jackie sips her water, gaze locked on my face.
“Jackie, this is between me and Nate. How do you know he isn’t the one to blame for everything?”
“I’m sure there’s plenty of blame to go around, dear. Trust me, he’s got his own conversation coming. But this is about you. What’s it going to take on your end to bury the hatchet?”
“For Nate to go back in time and not abandon us…erm…you.”
“If only we had a time machine.” She gives me a sad smile. “Unfortunately, that’s not possible. And this isn’t about you holding on to your grudge for my sake. I know you’re smarter than that. So the question remains. What is it going to take for you to forgive him?”
A miracle. “I can’t forget the way he just disappeared.”
“I’m not asking you to. No one is. But forgiving and forgetting are two different things.” Piercing me with eyes similar to her son’s, Jackie stabs her fork into a piece of melon and takes a bite.
