"And, honestly, it just goes to show you."
"Yeah? What exactly?"
"When you have the chance, go for the sex. Because you never know when you might end up losing it altogether."
"Thanks," I say. "I feel so much better."
And I do. Sort of.
I'm still pissed as hell, but I'm no longer a raging lunatic.
"But the opening was fun?" Joy asks. "Cass said the art was amazing and the performance was spectacular."
"I was seriously impressed," I admit.
"I went to Brighton with her," she adds, referencing a prestigious private school in LA that seems very un-Joy like.
"Who?"
"Kelsey. The dancer. We lost touch when she moved away. I didn't even realize until I saw an article about the opening in the paper this morning."
"Too bad you weren't at the show."
"I know, right?" Her voice turns muffled, and I hear her talking to someone else. Then she's back on the line. "I gotta go. You okay? I can switch stuff around and come over..."
"No, it's good. Greg's on his way to show me some pictures of the house we're going to be working on. He'll be here any min--Oh, he's here." My gate buzzer rings to my phone, and I have an app that lets me unlock it remotely. I do that now as I tell Joy goodbye and head to the front door to let him in.
I pull open the door, ready to tell him to beware because I'm in a pissy mood, when camera flashes burst like popcorn right in my face.
"What the--?"
I blink, but otherwise, I'm frozen. I should probably step back inside and slam the door shut, but I'm too baffled by the sight of at least a dozen shouting strangers, most with cameras, surrounding the steps up to my front door.
I open my mouth to try again, but this time, I don't have to ask the question. Because the reporters' shouted queries tell me everything I need to know.
"How long have you been engaged?"
"How did he pop the question?"
"Have you set a date?"
In the distance, I hear the squeal of tires.
At the same time, Greg pushes through the crowd, trying to get to me.
A car screeches to a halt in front of my house, stopping in the mid
dle of the street. The door is flung open, and Lyle barrels out, only to freeze on the sidewalk when a booming voice calls out, "Miss Laine!"
I turn toward the source of the voice, and frown at the vaguely familiar guy with a goatee and a baseball cap. "Is it true that you and Lyle Tarpin are engaged?"
In front of me, Greg's mouth drops open.
In the street, Lyle meets my eyes. And then ever so subtly, he nods his head.
And now it's on me.
I can answer the question the way he wants, or I can express my displeasure at his kiss-off note by telling the world that I haven't got a clue what they're talking about