“Don’t tell me you smoke.”
“I don’t.” He tossed it. “Anymore.”
She almost smiled, but Liv was a pretty cool cat in those days. She informed Eliot that smoking was disgusting and bad for his health.
Eliot lapped it up, leaning against the tent pole. “Then why do I keep doing it? What’s wrong with me?”
“Are you self-destructive? Hedonistic, even if it risks your health?”
Eliot clamped his hand over his heart. “It’s like you’ve known me all my life.”
That did get a laugh out of her.
Charmed, Eliot dropped the schtick. “You’re Olive, right? You helped plan this bacchanalia?” In front of them, everyone danced to “Brown Eyed Girl” played by a DJ wearing hammer pants.
“I am and I did,” Liv replied.
“Impressive. Your speech was terrific.”
Liv side-eyed him. “Yours too.”
“I like this.” Eliot handed her a glass of prosecco she didn’t even see him procure. “Let’s always believe in the best in each other. That’s how we’ll make it work.”
Liv looked him properly in the face for the first time. Beneath the mischief, his eyes were warm. She decided to go to bed with him. “I’m in.”
“Liv!”
Darlene stood in front of her, arms crossed.
“Sorry, what?” Liv struggled to get her bearings. She was beside a barn, not a tent, and the person in front of her was Darlene, looking at her with wary concern.
“The Wi-Fi isn’t working.” The singer sounded like she was repeating this. “We need it for the playlist—there’s no cell reception.”
“Right, yes.” Liv opened her binder. It was upside down. “Wasn’t the password on your—”
“It’s not working,” Darlene repeated, almost testily.
“The Wi-Fi?” Savannah popped up at her elbow, like a gopher in wedge sandals. “I just restarted the router. It’ll be back on in a minute.”
Darlene nodded and strode back toward the stage.
“Also, here are the NDAs.” Savannah handed them to Liv. “So exciting.”
Liv frowned at the stack, wondering how she’d got them signed so quickly. “Don’t lose your head over Clay Russo.”
“I won’t,” Savannah replied, as if the possibility was nonexistent. “Going to check on flowers.”
Liv watched her point something out to Henry, who was twisting a hundred white peonies into the arbor that’d been set up under the apple trees.
Was Savannah being professional, or was Clay Russo really not her type? Was Eliot her type? Did Eliot really lie to her, and if so, how did she feel about his betrayal? And why on earth did Eliot force his wife to meet—no, work with—the woman with whom he’d had an affair?
Her walkie-talkie crackled. The chef wanted to see her.
Amid the frantic ballet of the kitchen, Sam was sniffing the contents of a saucepan with the intensity of one solving a crime. Liv’s instinct was to appear cool and casual, as if she’d just bumped into him while engaging in a leisurely spot of gardening. “Oh, hello,” she said, stopping herself from adding, Aren’t the marigolds looking divine?
“Liv. Just the person I need.” He spooned something into a teaspoon and handed it to her.
It was the tomato-basil cream sauce, made with cashews instead of dairy. Velvety, salty-sweet ripeness, which promised so much. Spring. It was finally spring.
“Heaven. But don’t add any more salt, it’s just on the edge.”
His brown eyes crinkled when he grinned. “Knew I could trust you.”
“I feel like I can trust you too,” said Liv, before hearing the unchecked sincerity and blushing. God, how desperate did she sound? Gorman radioed her to come approve the bouquets. She made herself brusque. “I trust you’ll be right on time for five p.m. cocktail hour.”
“You got it, boss.” Sam dropped the teaspoon in the sink. “Hey, Liv,” he called after her. He tossed an apple in the air and caught it. “This is fun, isn’t it?”
He was smiling at her, as if he was genuinely having a good time.
She used to enjoy herself at weddings. She used to enjoy herself.
Liv made herself smile back at Sam, but she knew it was wonky and cheap, a knockoff. “Better get back to work.”
12
Clay Russo was not enjoying himself. Slumped on the end of the plush hotel bed, he couldn’t take his eyes off the magazine. The latest People, the one with him and Michelle on the front cover, both looking angry, above the bright yellow coverline that was giving him nightmares: CLAY DUMPS MICHELLE! And under it, in neon pink: WHAT TORE THEM APART AND WHAT’S NEXT FOR MICHELLE.
“Knock, knock.” Dave came in, balancing two shot glasses of whiskey, shutting the door behind him. He spotted the magazine in Clay’s hands. “Dude. C’mon.”
“I know.” Clay sighed, tossing it away. “I’m ignoring it. I am.”
“We knew it was coming.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier. And now you’re here to tell me more bad news.”
Dave handed him a shot. “It can wait.”
“No.” Clay got to his feet. “Lay it on me. I want to hear it before any of the two hundred people at your wedding.”
Dave faced him. “Michelle’s writing a book. A friend at Simon and Schuster slipped me an early draft. There’s a few chapters on you that suggest you like being”—Dave drew a breath, keeping his eye contact steady—“bossed around in bed.”
“What?” Clay slammed the shot glass onto the hotel desk. Hearing his kink voiced by his manager and best friend had his voice vibrating with angry embarrassment. “That’s private!”
“You could own it,” Dave suggested. “It’d be a surprise, but everyone’s into authenticity these days.”
“No way. That’s the whole problem.”
His ex-girlfriend had always dissolved the boundaries between public and private life. She claimed it was for “authenticity,” but Clay suspected it was to sate a hungry ego with the addictive feedback loop of social media. And now she was threatening to expose his private life in a way that was even more intimate and revealing.
“I can’t believe it.” Clay found Michelle’s eyes on the magazine cover and felt a hot thrust of pain under his ribs. “I trusted her.”
“I know. It’s bullshit. But that book will never come out. We’ve got an army of ruthless lawyers on it. It’ll be a bloodbath, with billable hours.” Dave blew out a sigh. “Look, thanks again for coming. I know you’d rather be… anywhere but here.”
Clay looked over in surprise. “Hey, this is the only place I want to be. You’re getting married, dude. You’re one of my best friends. I love you, man.”
Dave smiled, stretching the tiny scar on his upper lip from a layup Clay missed, back when they had nothing better to do than play basketball and sink cheap beers. “You’re one of the good ones, Clay Russo. To friendship.”
“To friendship. And to love.” The whiskey surged through Clay’s bloodstream, unlocking some of the tension in his shoulders. This would be fine. He’d stay for dinner, then slip out after the DJ started. Hopefully none of the guests would ask for a selfie.