Frisky Business (Chick Flick Club Book 3)

by Lila Monroe

  Eve finally smiles. “It really would be. You can be my emergency escape route, every time a conversation gets too awkward. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  “Awkward interruptions are what I’m here for,” I say, feeling surprisingly upbeat, considering I’ve just given up my weekend. “It’s a deal.”

  We arrive back at the house and head inside. Eve pauses by the stairs.

  “Thanks for offering to come with me,” she says softly. “If you come to your senses and change your mind, I completely understand.”

  “I won’t,” I say. And then neither of us move.

  Is this a moment? It suddenly feels like a moment, and a damn tempting one at that. Eve is framed in the darkness, just inches away. My eyes are drawn to her lush, kissable lips, and I almost reach out to touch—

  “Well . . . good night,” she blurts, and she steps back, out of my reach. “Can you let the dogs out before you go back? I’m going to grab a shower.”

  “Sure thing. See you in the morning,” I say, hiding my disappointment. I turn away and let Hans and Leia out, reminding myself that she’s not for me, I’m definitely not for her, and we just dodged a bullet. I can’t get involved with her. She is hands off.

  So yeah, the fact that we’re about to embark on a romantic weekend trip away probably isn’t the best idea.

  But then, I never was a guy to make the smartest choices.

  And confining myself to a small space with a girl I want to ravish? Definitely a boneheaded choice.

  Way to go, Noah.

  I head on back to the pool house to take a very long, very cold shower.

  IN THE MORNING, I find Eve sitting at the kitchen island, looking fresh and ready to go. A suitcase stands beside her stool. There are two paper cups of coffee in front of her. She pushes one across the counter toward me.

  “You sure you haven’t changed your mind?” she asks, looking cautious.

  “Nope,” I assure her as I pick up the coffee and take a gulp. “Thank you for this. Have you been out already?”

  She looks pointedly at the to-go cup in my hand.

  “Duh,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Obviously I need this more than I realize.”

  She grins. “I took the dogs to boarding and grabbed coffee, since I’m still terrified of that thing.” She glares at the espresso machine and then turns a smile on me, angling a paper bag so the aroma of cinnamon and sugar waft out. “Here. Grab a cinnamon bun, but be warned, they’re not as good as . . . you know . . . mine.”

  I reach into the bag for breakfast. “Yours are pretty fucking good,” I concede, even though I’m sure her friend Zoey was who actually baked them. And that Eve knows I know. “Ready to hit the road?”

  Eve takes another swig of coffee. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  We pile our luggage into the trunk of Viv’s convertible (another handy perk of house-sitting) and start our journey. I’m behind the wheel, with Eve acting as copilot and musical director. And for a while, we travel in companionable silence, drinking our coffees and listening to music as the city wakes around us. We cross the Golden Gate Bridge, and Eve starts singing along with an old Bon Jovi song. And I mean, really belting it.

  I snort with laughter. “I never took you for a hair-band kind of girl.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she says with a smile.

  “True story.”

  But the more I’m learning, the more I’m liking.

  And then she returns to singing. She actually has a great voice, and I can’t help but join her, belting out the classic rock playlist as we leave the city behind and follow the freeway up past the Bay.

  Her cell sounds an alert, and by the way she frowns at it, I’m pretty sure it’s her mother. Eve taps a response before she sighs and drops the phone in a cup holder.

  “Everything OK?”

  “Yeah.” She gives me a reserved smile. “She was just letting me know they arrived. We’re to meet them in the lobby bar when we get there.”

  “Bar. See? You can get drunk from the moment you arrive.”

  Eve smiles wider.

  “It’ll be great,” I add, encouraging. “Especially since you’ve got the best wedding date ever.”

  “Oh really,” she smirks. “And what makes you the best wedding date ever?”

  “I will keep your glass full, I am proficient in the chicken dance, the YMCA, and the Macarena.”

  That makes her laugh.

  “I’m fun, and, most importantly?”

  Her eyebrows go up.

  “I look fucking great in a tux.”

  She laughs.

  “And so modest too,” she teases.

  “Naturally,” I agree, but I’m still curious about what exactly I’m walking into here with this wedding. “No siblings to run defense?”

  “Nope,” she replies. “Just me and Mom. My dad left when I was eight.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It happens.” She shrugs. “Anyway. Mom really loved him, and she was just gutted when he left. I think . . .” She trails off, and I wait patiently for her to finish.

  Finally, she adds, “I think she’s been trying to find that love again since. But she’s so desperate for it that she goes about it all wrong. She’s one of those people who doesn’t do ‘single’ well. She likes the excitement, you know? A new guy, the flashier the better. I mean, I’m not saying she’s a gold-digger, but her priorities are . . . interesting.” She shakes her head with a wry smile. “Anyway, be warned, this guy is probably an arrogant dick with a fancy Rolex.”

  “Noted.”

  I think for a moment what it must have been like growing up like Eve—all that instability, careening from one place to the next. My parents are still boringly in love. I mean, sure, they bicker over who’s turn it is to take out the trash, and whether my dad was the one who lost the remote, but my childhood was about as stable as they come. Just a regular suburban upbringing, picket fence and all.

  “Is that why you’re holding out for true love?” I can’t help myself asking.

  She turns to look at me. “Because I need to be the opposite of her?”

  I shake my head. “Because you’ve seen what not to do, and you want something better.”

  After a long moment, she smiles. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just kidding myself. Aren’t you the one who told me all this true love is commercialized bullshit?”

  She’s right. I did. But somehow, I’m wondering if she’s the crazy one—or if I’ve made a mistake writing off love and romance quite so easily.

  “Maybe I was wrong,” I offer, and she snorts with laughter.

  “Wow. You really must be feeling sorry for me. How about you hold the pity talk, and focus on the road?”

  “But—” I’m about to argue that this isn’t pity talking, but Eve is already humming along with the next song. She kicks off her shoes and rests her feet up on the dashboard, her toenails painted with pink sparkling nail polish.

  The sight of her denim-clad legs stretched like that does interesting things to my blood flow.

  And parts further south.

  She’s right. Time to focus. After all, we’ve got a long drive ahead, and what am I going to tell the highway patrol when I cause a five-car pileup: Sorry, officer, I was panting over her toenails?

  Get it together, Hathaway.

  WE ARRIVE at the hotel too early to check in, so we drop our bags at the front desk—where Eve is

  immediately hug-tackled by her mother. Even if I hadn’t known they were related, I could have guessed. Trish is also petite and blonde, wearing way more makeup and tons of jewelry that jangles with every one of her enthusiastic gestures.

  “Evie, baby!” the woman cries. She pulls back from the hug and holds her daughter at arm’s length to give her a once-over. “It’s been forever! But I’m so glad you’re here. Oh, oh!” She lets go of Eve and reaches behind her to grab the man who has been standing there, smiling and waiting for his turn to greet us. “This
is Rex Grenier, your new soon-to-be stepdad! I hope you two hit it off. I mean, I know you will!”

  Eve manages a friendly smile. “Great to meet you, Rex.”

  Eve was right in her predictions about this guy. The guy looks like money, with gold rings on nearly every manicured finger, plus a San Tropez tan I’m guessing didn’t come out of the bottle. His suit is cut perfectly—bespoke or maybe a well-tailored designer.

  Trish turns her smile on me. “And who is this?”

  I’m about to answer, but then figure it’s best to let Eve do the introductions in case I need to play a role.

  Eve clears her throat. “This is my friend Noah. Noah, my mom Trish. And Rex, obviously.”

  “Noah!” Trish claps happily. “My daughter never tells me anything. How long have you two been dating?”

  Eve sighs. “Not dating. Friends.”

  “Ah,” Trish says knowingly. “So, you’re hooking up. Friends with benefits, isn’t that what you guys call it?”

  I have to laugh as Eve turns bright red. “MOTHER! Boundaries!”

  Trish giggles and grabs me into a hug. “Oh, such muscles on you,” she says into my ear. “My daughter’s a lucky girl.”

  “Ms. . . . Trish . . .” I say. “It’s not like—” I don’t get the chance to finish because Eve grabs my arm and starts dragging me away.

  “We need to go get settled in, Mom,” she says. “We’ll catch up with you later!”

  “Don’t forget!” Trish trills out. “Rehearsal dinner at seven!”

  We’re around a corner and halfway down the hall before Eve lets go of me. I turn toward her. I can’t quite identify her expression. “So,” she says. “That’s my mom.”

  “She’s . . . charming,” I say.

  Eve gives me a look. “That’s a nice way of saying ‘crazy.’ ”

  I laugh. “She is charming. In her own way. Rex seems OK, too. And he seems to like her.”

  “For now,” she says grimly. “Let’s hit the bar—I’m definitely going to need booze to get me through this. Thank God we’re at a winery!”

  13

  EVE

  THERE’S ONLY one thing to do to make it through this embarrassment of a wedding: drink. Luckily, booze is in no short supply. In fact, the bartender whisks out a wine list longer than my arm, and soon I’m three pinots deep and beginning to feel like maybe I can make it through this weekend without strangling my mother.

  Because seriously? Ugh!

  “We should go get ready for dinner,” Noah suggests, checking his watch.

  “I guess . . .” I slide off my stool, and I have to steady myself when the room tilts a little. Hmm, OK, maybe I need to pace myself.

  “You OK?” he asks, looking amused.

  “Just fine,” I reply. “Although . . . Is it just me, or is the room spinning a little?”

  He laughs. “Lightweight.”

  “Maybe,” I agree. “Just steer me in the right direction.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Noah takes my elbow and leads me out of the bar. I grab his arm for balance, and can’t help noticing it’s rock hard under my grip. “I like your . . .” I’m about to say body, but I shouldn’t be ogling him. “Driving skills.” I finish.

  He laughs. “What?”

  “You’re a good driver,” I say seriously. “You did a good job getting us here safely. You should be commented . . . no . . . commended.”

  “Okaaaaaay,” he says, amused. “Maybe we should find you some snacks to soak up all that pinot.”

  “Ooh, snacks! Where?”

  He laughs, guiding me over to the check-in desk. “Eve Braithewaite and Noah Hathaway. Checking in.”

  “Welcome,” the smiling woman in uniform says. “We have you in room 1004. It’s one of our best suites. Your bags have already been taken up.”

  Wait, did she say “room”—singular?

  “What about him?” I ask, pointing at Noah.

  The clerk frowns, looking between us. “I have you booked for one room. Our view deluxe. Is that a problem?”

  Umm, besides the fact I’m just about tipsy enough to jump Noah’s bones right now?

  “No, it’ll be fine. Thanks,” Noah says, taking our keycards and leading me away toward the elevators. When we get to our floor and he opens up our room, I pause before going in.

  “Look, we’ve been sharing a house, I’m sure we can manage to share a suite,” Noah says, waving me inside. “I’ll take the couch.”

  That wasn’t what I was thinking, but sure. OK.

  Inside, the room is gorgeous—and clearly meant for romance. There’s a big king-sized bed, views over the rolling vineyards, a heart-shaped pillow nestling, and even another bottle of wine waiting on the coffee table.

  Because I really need fewer inhibitions about now.

  “So . . .” Noah starts, but I don’t wait to hear what he has to say. I grab my suitcase and hurry into the bathroom. “Sorry!” I yell when I slam the door harder than I mean to. “Time to get ready!”

  I lock myself in and turn toward the mirror, squinting because: wine. Time for some damage control. I open up my bag and pull out my makeup case to start on my face.

  And, you know, drink a couple of glasses of water, too.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, my hair is done, my makeup is touched up, and I’m in a red gown courtesy of Gemma’s styling closet. It fits her but it’s positively snug on me. But in all the right places, if I’m being honest. After one final look in the mirror, I emerge.

  Noah is adjusting his cuffs and looks up. “Whoa,” he says, his eyes widening as they slide down my body, warming me from the inside out. “You look . . . Wow, Eve, you look amazing.”

  It’s only in that second I realize I was waiting for his reaction. The desire in his eyes has me flustered. Or maybe it’s what he looks like. Probably a combo deal.

  “You clean up pretty nicely,” I say, because damn, he could be on The Bachelor with how well he fills out that suit. “You know, for a pool boy.”

  He laughs. “Pool boy? Is that what you think of me? As your pool boy?”

  “Not my pool boy,” I say. My face is hot and surely beet red but I can’t seem to stop stupid things from coming out of my mouth. “But . . . well, you live out by the pool, so . . . I mean, if you were a real pool boy, you’d probably have more of a tan. You know. On your chest.” I wave in that general direction. “Which I’ve seen and it’s not that tanned.”

  HOLY FUCKING FUCK, STOP TALKING! I yell inside my head. Thankfully, my mouth gets the message and clamps shut.

  Noah is clearly amused. “We should go,” he says, to my great relief.

  We get to the private dining room and find a whole bunch of strangers are milling around, mingling and drinking wine. They’re clearly from the groom’s side of things, judging by the designer duds on show.

  “Something from the bar?” Noah asks.

  I’m tempted to keep drinking hard, but I’m afraid if I do, I’m going to make even more of a fool of myself with him. But I need something to put in my hand—so it doesn’t keep squeezing his bicep. “Just a soda water, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  He heads for the bar while I scope the room, glancing from one unfamiliar face to the next. I don’t know any of my mother’s friends. Or are these Rex’s? I drift over to a group of people, determined to make the best of it. It’s three couples in their early thirties, all looking sleek and stylish.

  “Hi,” I introduce myself tentatively. “I’m Eve, Trish’s daughter.”

  “Oh, hi!” The woman lights up. “Soooo great to finally meet you. Your mom is just a hoot!”

  That’s one way of putting it, for sure.

  “I’m Rex’s daughter, Phoebe,” she continues. “This is my husband Max . . .” She goes on to introduce everyone else around her. More of Rex’s kids and their spouses. She’s just finishing up when Noah rejoins us, bearing my drink.

  I give him a grateful smile, because he was right: having
a plus-one is making this so much easier.

  “Nice to meet you all,” I say, taking a sip of the spritzer.

  “And what do you do?” Max asks casually.

  Oh. The dreaded question. These people all look mature and settled in their expensive clothes that probably aren’t borrowed from friends. How would they feel about me if I told them the truth? That I’m basically a pet-sitter and minimum-wage-earning, part-time dog groomer and volunteer who can barely make ends meet?

  “Eve is an animal care specialist,” Noah pipes up. “She consults on canine adoptions. She’s also known as the dog whisperer of San Francisco.”

  I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing at the way Noah spins my various odd jobs. But as I glance over at him, he’s not laughing. He looks . . . proud?

  Clearly, I’m still tipsy, but it seems to do the trick, because the group actually looks impressed.

  “Oh,” Phoebe says, eyes widening. “That’s great. We have a couple of shelter mutts that we love more than anything. I’d love to work with dogs all day. You’re so lucky!”

  I manage not to snort, especially when Noah’s hand lands at the small of my back, his touch light but meaningful.

  “Why don’t we find a seat,” he says, nodding toward the crowd at the door. “Your mom and Rex just came in with the rest of the wedding party.”

  “Good idea.” I exhale in relief to leave the interrogation. “Let’s eat!”

  FIVE COURSES of farm-to-table deliciousness later, my buzz is wearing off, and the stress of the day is catching up with me. I must have fielded a dozen questions about my job, life, and romantic attachments (with a meaningful look at Noah). By the time we get to the third toast, it seems like the entire wedding party is poised to say something about the happy couple. But the inside jokes and innuendo are lost on me, only reminding me how I’m not really a part of my mom’s life anymore. I’m feeling tired and done with the spectacle.

  “Another dessert?” Noah offers. “I think there are three we haven’t tried yet.”

  I shake my head. “No thanks.”