Page 24 of Minted
A muscle I used to love in James’ jaw is popping, but instead of making me swoon, now it makes my lip twitch in humor.
Because it means he’s ticked.
“You’re not wearing that, are you?” His slow once over used to make my heart race, but now it makes me feel about as attractive as a toad.
“I am, actually.” I stand up and smooth the lines in my green dress. “Or did you think that when we divorced, I’d stop wearing Boden’s holiday dresses?” This one is A-line, and I think it looks pretty good on me, even when I’m, well, my current size. It’s thick fabric, so it looks smooth, and it makes my ample curves look even more pronounced.
“Dynamite.”
He says that all the time, and now I can’t stand it. I frown.
“I guess I’ll try and figure something out with the cake.”
It’s not in my nature to let someone struggle with something. I know he could call Kristy and make her come up the elevator to help him, but with my luck, I’d probably run into them again, and then someone would trip, and I’d end up face-planting into a two foot by two foot cake.
I groan. “I’ll help you get it down, at least.”
“That’s something.” James has never been the kind of person to hand out fake gratitude. I used to think it was refreshing. Now I just think it’s rude. It’s funny how your perception changes when you’re not wearing rose-colored glasses.
Unfortunately, there’s really no way to carry the cake without both of us facing one another, our hands braced on opposite ends. “Who came up with the cake idea in the first place?” I ask. “It’s stupid. Why can’t we have something delivered, like tins of nuts?”
“Or a big barrel of popcorn,” James says. “People love popcorn.”
“Once, that copy company sent us all custom notepads with fancy highlighters,” I say.
“I remember,” James says. “I think I still have the highlighter.”
“Anything would be better than this.”
“If our CEO had to lug this thing to a single party,” James says, “you can bet we’d be sending a fruit basket next year.”
It may be the first time I’ve chuckled around him since the divorce. I suppose shared misery can be a decent bridge. When the elevator opens on the garage floor, Bentley’s standing there, awkwardly ignoring Kristy.
“Oh,” James says. “You’re here.”
Kristy’s glaring at him. “Looks like you two are having a lovely time. Did you coordinate those outfits?”
It strikes me then, that instead of insulting my appearance, James might have been annoyed because the green stripes in his tie exactly match my dress. My bright red coat and matching high heels are the exact color of the counterstripe, so. . .
We look like a couple.
And last year at this party, everyone at Clinique knew we were a couple. This might be even more awkward than I realized.
“We didn’t,” I say.
“No way,” James says.
But we’re joined by a cake box, and now we’ve stood still, both of us horrified, for so long that the elevator door starts to close.
Bentley dives in, blocking the doors with a martial-arts-esque move.
“That was so cool,” Kristy says.
“Here.” I shuffle out of the elevator, forcing Bentley back, and then I toss my head for Kristy to take the cake. “We can’t take it. There’s no way it’ll fit in the McLaren.”
“You drive a McLaren?” Kristy’s eyes are round as saucers as she takes the cake box from me. “I thought you drove some crappy Buick.”
“I just bought it for her.” Bentley tosses me the keys. “She still has the Buick—it was her mom’s—but I thought she needed something more fun to drive around town.”
