Page 44 of Sweet as Sin (Bad Habit 1)
“Nothing like waiting until the last minute,” Grace muttered.
“Actually, he didn’t know until the last minute,” Chloe corrected, looking at me pointedly. “Because someone didn’t tell him until the last minute. Anyway, he wanted to know if you had any favorite flowers, and what all the colors of the roses meant, and how much he needed to spend to make it amazing. And when his buddies made fun of him, he just said you felt right. And that they could go fuck themselves.”
“Nico brought his friends with him to go flower shopping for a woman?” Judging by Grace’s startled expression that seemed to carry some deep meaning.
“Two of the guys from the band. Brody, the lead guitarist I think, and A.J., the drummer.” Chloe made a face. “And that A.J. was a total jerk! Do you know he actually had the nerve to growl at me when I got too close to where he was standing on my way into the cooler? Like what—he’s so important I can’t even walk around my own shop?”
She huffed, which was the extent of her temper. I’d once seen her snap at a waitress who’d accidentally dumped a plate of spaghetti in her lap. Chloe felt so bad about snapping, she left a tip even bigger than the bill and wrote a five-page apology letter to the restaurant, even though the silk dress she’d been wearing was ruined. She was a marshmallow.
“Wait, back up. You’re telling me Nico brought his bandmates to go flower shopping? From the band?”
Chloe frowned at Grace. “Yes, his bandmates from the band. As opposed to his bandmates from the IRS?”
I was worried now. “Why? Is that bad?”
“Well . . . no. It’s just not what I would’ve thought a man like Nico would do. Showing his tender underbelly in front of the other predators, and all.”
“Grace, has it ever occurred to you that not every man is a predator?”
Grace scoffed. “Show me a man who isn’t a predator and I’ll show you a woman.”
“That’s a terrible attitude for a marriage counselor!” Chloe had gone into prim schoolmarm mode, pinching her mouth and looking disapprovingly down her nose at Grace. Which of course made Grace laugh.
“You’re right, Chloe. I’ll try to remember your wise words during my next session.”
“With Mr. Wet Work? Are you seeing him this week?” Chloe had already forgotten her disapproval. She wanted details. I thought that was a terrible idea, considering we were both nursing ugly hangovers. With a pounding head and a queasy stomach, there’s only so much talk about urine you can take.
The doorbell rang.
“Who’s ringing my bell at the crack of dawn?” I grumbled, making no move to get up.
“Eleven o’clock is hardly the crack of dawn, Sleeping Beauty.” Grace rose from her chair and swept off to get the door. Since she was the only one of us who currently looked like a human being, I thought that was a good idea.
Boy, was I wrong.
Grace’s shocked cry jerked me out of my seat. I looked over just in time to see her slam the front door in the faces of what appeared to be a small mob with cameras gathered on my doorstep, jostling and shoving one another in their eagerness to get a look inside.
Paparazzi.
From behind the closed door—which Grace had flung herself against—they began s
houting questions.
“Miss Reid, what’s your relationship with Nico Nyx? Is it true you’re pregnant? Have you secretly married?”
Chloe’s mouth hung so far open her jaw looked unhinged. Grace looked wildly around my living room, as if for a weapon. As for me, I was glued in terror to my seat, having absolutely no idea what to do.
From the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the yard outside the kitchen window. Standing there with a video camera on his shoulder was a guy in a TMZ T-shirt. He was grinning. He pointed to the lens and mouthed, “Smile!”
That did it.
I launched myself from the chair, stormed to the window, and, after giving him the finger, yanked the shades down. I then strode through the living room, cursing, pulling all the drapes closed, trying to keep the bacon I’d just eaten from making a reappearance.
“Chloe, call the police!” Grace made sure the front door was locked, then ran to the back door and did the same while I tried not to panic, or puke. Chloe dialed 911 and reported to the operator that we were under attack. The operator seemed to be having trouble understanding her story, because a near-speechless Chloe was uttering such enlightening gems as, “People! Cameras! Swarming! Help!”
I took the phone, identified myself, and gave my address. “Please, send officers right away, there’s a group of paparazzi in my front yard trying to take my picture!”
There was a pause. “Ma’am, are you in physical danger?”
