Page 22 of Breathtaking
Lennon
The appointment is confirmed. I’m not sure if we’re going to Mornea. I’ll let you know later.
Maria
Copy.
Monty’s name flashes as soon as Maria messages, and I stuff the phone under my pillow. I’ll answer him once I’ve showered. That sounds good... a long shower. Can I shower for the entire weekend? Then I could avoid the appointment and avoid the event I know I’m supposed to be attending with the douchebag duke.
Avoidance—any proper royal’s favorite way of dealing with conflict.
And I’m here for it.
* * *
One hour, one piping-hot shower, and three different outfit changes later, I’m as ready to face what’s likely going to be the worst day I’ve had since the day we laid my mother to rest as I’m going to get. My makeup is on point because let’s face it, good makeup is a shield for the world to see and for me to hide behind. My hair looks as good as it’s going to get, and every inch of my body is semi-recently waxed, buffed, and lotioned.
I flip my head upside down and fluff my hair, only to look at the woman staring back at me with pity. The one whose breasts are overfilling her bra cups. Whose normally nearly concave stomach has the slightest softness. Like she ate one too many fish tacos last night, when in reality, she hasn’t had an appetite in days.
I remind myself of something my mother used to say often.
Chin up, darling, or the crown slips.
What would she think of this?
Pretty sure the crown is about to be seriously tarnished, but there’s not much I can do about it now. When Monty’s muffled ringtone chimes again from under the pillow, I force myself up. Time to face the music.
His name flashes on my phone as I slide my thumb across the screen to answer.
I can do this.
“Hello, Montgomery.” His name tastes like acid on my lips.
“Why aren’t you here?”
Right to the point.
No hellos or niceties. Nohow was your day. Justwhy aren’t you where I want you.
Montgomery Hastings gives douches a bad name.
Here goes nothing. “I’m leaving for a doctor’s appointment in a few minutes. I think I’m coming down with something. I don’t want to get anyone sick, so I’m not coming home this weekend.”
Not like they can catch what I’ve got, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lennon. Of course you’re coming home. Pack your bag, get your bony ass in a car, and tell them to have you here this afternoon. Pre-dinner cocktails are at five, and dinner is being served at seven.”
My ass is not bony, and I’m getting tired of people commenting on it.
Fucking wanker.
“I thought the party wasn’t until Sunday evening.” I’m not sure why I even bother arguing, but I do it anyway because he’s pissing me off.
His annoyance bleeds through the phone, and I should probably consider ending the call.
Whoops.
Poor cell reception.
