Page 38 of Champagne Fizz

“I understand that you think my business name is a joke,” I interrupt, my temperature rising with the fact that he’s playing all innocent and pretending he hasn’t just shown his true colors and turned into a royal son-of-a-biscuit! “But you don’t have to be mean.”

I shoot up from the couch and head for the door.

“Wait, Kendall! You’ve got this all wrong.” I hear him call out behind me as I storm through the showroom into the main gallery like my clothes are on fire.

Idohave this all wrong. IthoughtSimon was on my side, but obviously he thinks it’s hilarious to rub my old boss in my face. And for what end, I don’t know, but it’s down-right scabby!

The dress clerk looks up, alarmed that I’ve burst through one of the rows of tulle and lace with my client still in the backroom being prodded by the seamstress. I flash the woman my phone, making it look like I’ve got an important call to take, which is the same lie I text to Olivia the second I’m outside on the street.

I need air.

I need the ocean.

I need to clear my head so I don’t go postal in front of the one client I actually jive with.

Veronica West is a demon that’s going to mock me as long as I stay in Hawaii, or I stay in the wedding business. I really shouldn’t be triggered by her. It’s unhealthy. Sue Blade would fire me in a second for this giant red-flag of an imposter-syndrome-tantrum that I’m throwing right now. I get it—I’mthe problem!

I just need a minute to cool my spaghetti.

I walk into the street without looking, barely registering the honking of cars as I bee-line it toward the ocean. The sun blazes down from above, and it’s hot out: gross hot, humid volcano-smoothie of lick-you-with-sweaty-dog-breath hot. I start regretting that I left the air-conditioned comfort of the dress boutique when—

Hands grab my waist.

“Kendall, slow down. Wait a second.”

Simon’shands are on my hips—on my stomach.

He turns me toward him, but the sheer inertia of my rampage causes us to crash into each other. My hands hit his chest, fingers spreading over his pecs, and Satan-blaring-down-from-above, I feel how firm and muscular he is under that fabric. Seriously, this scarcely-there gingham hides absolutely nothing.

The sun sears down from above and I’m too hot.

He’s too hot!

I mean in reality, it’s probably been half-a-second that I’ve been sliding my hands over his chest, but mother-of-pearl he feels amazing.

Am I really groping him in public?

Am I really heating up to three-hundred-and-seven degrees, or is it the sun that’s melted me into a Kendall-smoothie? All I can logically conclude is that my mouth is dry and I can’t breathe.

“Kendall? Hey? You look really red.”

Simon’s speaking.

I hear him speaking, but his face is scrunched up with concern behind those adorable horn-rimmed glasses. Glasses that I want to slide off his face so I can lean in and kiss him thoroughly.

Hotly.

Passionately.

Even though he’s all blurry, and fuzzy, and—

“Oh shit,” I hear him swear. “Are you going to pass out?”

Arms wrap around me and I try to breathe. Warmth and heat bleats through me—and then I’m weightless and floating. Someone’s carrying me.

Maybe.

Maybe it’s Simon—

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