Wendy sneaks a glance at the driver. “John does seem pretty controlling,” she agrees in a whisper.
“Yeah.” Claire matches her whisper. “The NDA was a little weird.”
“And the assigned seats on the plane,” I add quietly.
“She said he’ll be working most of the time, though,” Wendy reasons. “I doubt we’ll see him that much. And maybe it’s superstition or something. A lot of people are weird about flying.”
Leave it up to Wendy to be diplomatic.
“How’s he so rich?” Amythest asks.
“I don’t know exactly,” I say. “His company is Lionshare Holdings? He does something with real estate development, I think, moving money around, funding things.”
“Sounds shady,” Amythest comments.
“I’m sure some of it is,” I agree.
“I don’t think so,” Wendy says. “He just funded the new superhero movie with that superhot Australian guy who just had a baby with the blonde that was in the last installment? It’s like number four in the series I think.”
“Midas 4, When the Gold Runs Out,” I recite. I turn to Wendy. “Speaking of movies, don’t mention anything about you guys visiting me in the Bahamas. According to Summer, it never happened.”
She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Good to know.”
“I just wish she’d tell us these things before,” I grumble. “How are we supposed to know what not to say?”
“Well, we know John’s jealous,” Wendy replies. “So probably skip anything that has to do with another guy. And for sure don’t mention Eric.”
“Who’s Eric?” Amythest asks.
“Summer’s ex,” I say.
“What happened?”
“He died,” Wendy says with an air of finality.
“Shit. How?” Amythest presses.
“It’s probably better if we don’t talk about it.” Wendy looks pointedly at me. “Okay?”
“O-kaaaay.” Amythest holds up her hands. “Jeez. So what happened in the Bahamas?”
I could bite my tongue, but I’m feeling ornery. “You know Tate James?”
Amythest nods. “I mean, not personally.”
Wendy gives me a sharp glance. “Oh, come on,” I say, snorting. “I get not talking about Eric, but this is really not that big a deal.” I turn my attention to Amythest and Claire, who lean in attentively. “I had a bit part in a movie he was starring in a couple of years ago—”
“Which one?” Amythest interrupts.
“Black Heart,” I say.
“Who were you?” she asks.
“I played his girlfriend’s best friend who gets taken hostage by his nemesis and killed. I had, like, two lines before I got a dagger to the throat.”
“That’s so cool,” she enthuses.
“So what happened with Summer?” Claire asks.
“My scene required rain, and they wanted real rain, God knows why, so I was down there a couple of weeks waiting for it to rain, and Summer and Wendy came down to visit me. Summer ended up hooking up with Tate. Then his wife showed up for a surprise visit, and he kicked Summer to the curb. She was pretty upset.”
“Then what happened?” Amythest prods.
“Nothing,” Wendy says, fixing me with a glare.
Okay, fine. I won’t tell the part about how Summer showed up at his hotel room and confessed everything to his wife while he was on set, triggering that vicious divorce. “See? Not that exciting,” I concede lamely. “We had fun before the merde hit the fan, though.” I turn to Wendy. “Remember that wedding we accidentally crashed?”
Wendy laughs. “And I ended up making out with the best man. Can you believe that was only, like, three years ago?”
“A lot can change in three years,” I say.
I lean my head back against the leather seat and gaze out the window as we descend into a little town at the bottom of the hill that seems almost set-designed to be a quaint Italian village by the sea. The street is lined with bakeries and shops that look like they’ve been there for hundreds of years.
The Suburbans thread their way slowly through cobblestone streets that were not made to accommodate giant American vehicles, coming to a halt in front of a cute little restaurant with red awnings and ample outdoor seating.
“How cute,” Claire comments.
Summer, Rhonda, and Brittani emerge from the front Suburban and stroll past the restaurant. “I was hoping we were going to eat,” Amythest says longingly as they disappear from view.
The goon opens the door, and the car fills with the smell of spiced roasting meat. “Where’s everyone going?” I ask.
“Summer saw a shop she wanted to stop in.”
“Can we just pop in that restaurant and grab a bite while she shops?” Wendy asks. “We’re all starving.”
He shakes his head. “You stick together. Come on.”
We pile out of the car, and he herds us up the street and around the corner, into a little boutique where Summer already has an armful of dresses to try on. She holds a peach one up for us to see. “What do you think?”
“That color is beautiful on you,” Rhonda raves.
The smell of fresh-baked bread wafts through the store from the bakery next door. I could faint I’m so hungry. I thumb through a rack. Prada. Miu Miu. Versace. The prices are in euros and are nothing I can remotely afford.
“These clothes are gorgeous!” Wendy exclaims.
Claire shows me the price tag on a swimsuit, wide-eyed. Six hundred fifty euros. For a strip of fabric no bigger than my hand. I sit in a chair in the front corner of the store, looking longingly out the window at curvy Italian girls licking gelato from waffle cones.
Upon seeing the armfuls of outfits Summer is taking into the dressing room, the shopgirl pops open a bottle of prosecco and pours us each a glass. The bubbles caress my tongue and the alcohol hits my stomach like a fireball, warming me from the inside out. Without a morsel of food in my belly, soon I’m fuzzy and starting to enjoy myself. The shopgirl keeps the bubbly coming, and before long, we’re all merrily sloshed.
When we finally leave the store, Brittani and Rhonda are restyled in the tasteful new dresses Summer bought them and Bernard is overloaded with Summer’s giant shopping bags. I’m a little surprised that he’s willing to be her cart horse, but I guess he doesn’t have much choice. We stumble down the cobblestone street behind him, the impractical four-hundred-euro white silk scarves Summer bought each of us draped around our necks, our laughter echoing down the narrow pathway. The sight of the restaurant where our Suburbans are parked reminds me of how hungry I am, and I immediately feel the downturn of the champagne buzz already beginning to morph into a headache.
Wendy grabs my arm. “Do you smell that? Fresh pizza.”
I inhale the scent of baking crust, bubbling tomato sauce, smoked meats. I know I’m supposed to just go with the flow, but my hunger gets the better of me. Weak at the knees, I turn to Summer. “Please can we just stop in and grab a slice of pizza? We’re famished.”
“Oh! I totally forgot you guys were hungry! Was there not enough fruit and PowerBars in the car?” she asks.