Page 14 of Madden

“I can’t look at you right now. Listen to yourself.”

I toss my phone on the bed and begin shuffling through my suitcase, trying to figure out what I could wear.

With a huff, I cross my arms. I hadn’t planned to stay for an extra night, let alone hit up the town while I was here.

“Listen to you.” She emphasizes the word you. “Don’t act like you don’t need an orgasm or two. Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help. Okay? I’m perfectly capable of finding a man for myself.”

“Oh, you mean like Mitchell?” She cackles.

I swipe my phone off the bed and flash her a warning look.

We had an agreement we wouldn’t talk about Mitchell again. Not because of any residual hurt or feelings leftover from when our relationship ended.

She has valid reasons for not liking him. Ones even I can’t refute or argue. He wasn’t good enough for me and was a prime example of letting the wrong people in who only wanted to use me for what they could get from me.

We made a deal we’d leave him in the rubble of mistakes, never to be seen or spoken of again. She broke the rules.

She holds her hand up. “Listen, I’m sorry for bringing up he who shall not be named, but it had to be said. All I’m trying to do is look out for my friend.”

“Looking out for me by interfering with my job and trying to convince me to hook up with a playboy rock star? How is this helping exactly?”

“We’ve already been over this.” She shakes her head. “Orgasms. It all comes back to orgasms.” She claps her hands, emphasizing each word.

“You know how you could help me? Help me figure out something to wear that doesn’t look like I’m about to have a sit-down meeting with the president.”

She screeches and drops her phone, but I’m left listening to her laugh at my expense. Usually, she’s the one making the jokes. However, this time, I managed to hit her with one.

I start laying my clothes on the bed, trying to make sense of what to wear. I hit the button to flip the phone screen around and snap my fingers, ordering her to focus.

“Will you help me? What should I wear?”

I have two pairs of pants—one is the pair of Alexander McQueen black slacks I wore on the flight here, and the other is the Saint Laurent jeans I planned to wear home. For tops, I have a yellow chiffon blouse or a cobalt-blue peplum sleeveless top.

Neither of them is fitting for a night out at a small-town bar watching a rock band.

I rub my fingers over my forehead, massaging it. My backup plan is to come up with a way out of this night entirely.

“Go with the blue and your denim jeans. Wear your hair down with your black Louboutins. Maybe bring a clutch with you instead of your purse.”

She’s right. It’s the best choice given what I have if I don’t want to walk in there looking overdressed.

Two knocks sound on the door, and I quickly check the peephole to see who it is. Davis is standing on the other side, running his hand through his hair. I flip the lock and open it, noting he’s wearing a pair of lounge pants and a white T-shirt. Judging by the look on his face, something’s wrong.

“Is everything okay?”

He shrugs, dropping his hand to his side. “Honestly, no.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping back to let him into my room.

“I won’t be staying long. I think I got food poisoning from the restaurant we ate at for lunch. I can hardly stand. I feel like I’m going to be sick again.”

“Okay, that’s fine. We can cancel for tonight.”

I clutch my phone in my hand. I swear I can hear Serena yelling at me.

“No, don’t,” he pleads. “You should still go. I mean, at least one of us should, especially if we can get photos for the article.”

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