Page 51 of Bordeaux Bombshell
I unlock my phone and open my messaging app, pulling Philip’s text thread up. Sutton leans back to shout past me as I type. “Mercedes, I’m sending you a file. Can you please print me two copies?”
Sydney
Thewordsonmyscreen blur as I type out another description of yet another slightly different variety of pickles. As much as I want to complain about how boring it is to write the website descriptions of ninety-nine varieties of gourmet gherkins, I won’t. I’ve lost too many clients to AI lately—finding someone who would rather pay me than use it is a blessing.
But the headache I’ve been ignoring for the last hour as I hunch over my laptop throbs again, forcing me to pause. With a sigh, I reach my arms up above my head, then stretch my spine. My fingers brush the broad leaves of the fiddle-leaf fig beside me, reminding me again that I am not in my apartment.
Lauren and Alfie’s place in Boston is huge and full of plants. So many, they have a woman who comes in twice a week to water and take care of them, and who I was under strict instructions not to bother. Cláudia’s here so often that I already feel like we’re friends, and it’s only been a couple of weeks. I was theoreticallyaware of the scope of their indoor rainforest, but I was not truly prepared for it when I begged Lauren to let me crash at their place while I worked Nate out of my system.
The house is right on the harbor, with gorgeous views out of every window. I keep catching myself standing and staring out of them, watching the waves below as I debate why I’m here and not at home.
I’ve been treading water for so long—too angry to let go of my hurt feelings despite knowing I was the one responsible for my misery. Figuring out how to change that has occupied every thought I haven’t been able to drown in work. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to come up with anything except to forgive him for being an immature jerk and move on.
But move on to what? With who?
Pushing back from the masculine desk in the office, I close my laptop as my stomach growls. I can’t actually remember the last thing I ate—maybe a banana this morning?
I’m perusing the choices in the fridge—leftover Thai, leftover Chinese, or leftover pasta—when the distinct beeping of the front door being unlocked catches my ear.
Cláudia doesn’t come on Wednesdays, and she doesn’t come this late.
“Sydney, you little shit! Get your cute butt out here.” Lauren’s voice rings out through the house. There’s some muffled talking before it repeats. “Sydney!”
I freeze, hiding behind the open fridge door and praying that’s not who I think it is. I wanted Lauren to help me hide, not join me.
Footsteps echo through the house, and Alfie’s head appears in the doorway between the kitchen and the entry hall. “She’s in here, love.” He looks back over his shoulder, then thrusts a bottle of wine toward me. “Here. Good luck.”
I take it on instinct but curl my lip. “I don’t drink wine.”
“Yes you do. And she definitely does.” He looks pointedly at the three empty bottles sitting next to the trash can, then smirks. Damn, he’s handsome. And that English accent is so sexy. If I wasn’t terrified of Lauren…
I sigh, knowing I don’t really think that and that he’s right. “Traitor.”
“Listen, you little shit,” Lauren berates before she’s even rounded the corner into the kitchen. Alfie grabs her by the waist when she passes him and swings her into him for a deep, sloppy kiss. Complete with a firm ass grab.
Lauren melts against him, momentarily distracted, before she pushes against his chest and frees her lips to start berating me again.
Releasing her, he looks at her like she’s made of sparkles and fairy dust, even while she’s calling me all kinds of names. And I’m fucking green with envy.
“If I had known you were fucking running away when you asked to come out here, I never would have said yes. That was a dick move, and don’t even think about lying to me.” Alfie disappears in the direction of the front door, the sound of suitcases rolling on the wood floor following shortly after. Lauren’s already pulling wineglasses from the cupboard, so I move on to opening the wine bottle.
Thank god it’s a screw top.
“I wasn’t—”
She cuts me off by reaching for the bottle and plucking it out of my hand. “I heard it from Sophie, who talked to Jackie, who fuckingsawthe note you left Nate. You just left? After everything with Manon and all the fighting?” She pours a generous amount into one of the three glasses on the counter and takes a large sip.
Red wine sloshes in the glass she points at me, nearly spilling over the edge. “I thought for sure you were at least getting somemajorly hot hate sex, and that’s why this was dragging on for so long.”
I’m having trouble following her train of thought, but I absolutely do not want to confess all my sins tonight. “Um, what?”
“Isn’t that why you were so upset at the bridal shower? Because Manon insinuated she’d also slept with your man?” Lauren takes another long sip, staring at me over the rim of her glass.
“Um, I guess that is part of it, but what—”
Alfie returns, taking the third glass off the counter. “You better start at the beginning, Sydney. I’ll be making myself scarce.” He nods, then heads deeper into the house, leaving me alone with the Spanish Inquisition.
“Well?”
