Oh my God, you totally saved the day,” Jane whisper-yelled when Wendy arrived for the photo shoot the next morning bearing not just bagels but several bottles of Prosecco and a gallon of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Everyone is standing around waiting for the photographer to finish setting up her equipment, and I knew I should have done more with catering.”
“Nah.” Wendy flashed Jane a smile. “We’ll just get ’em drunk. Much more efficient.”
Elise approached and gave Wendy a quick hug before relieving her of her bags.
“Is Gia here?” Wendy asked, looking around for the fourth member of their close-knit group.
“She’s a Calvin Klein shoot in Rio,” Elise said.
“But she sent a picture!” Jane pulled out her phone. “She asked me for specs on how these shots were going to be done, and she had Steven Meisel create one of her in the same vein. Like, in an off moment during the shoot. Can you imagine?”
“I really can’t.” Wendy took the phone to better see the photo Jane had called up and refraining from asking the obvious question: Who is Steven Meisel? And also from wondering why she hadn’t thought to fake an international high-fashion photo shoot this morning. That was probably the only thing that would have gotten her off the hook today.
“Hi, Wendy.” Jane’s fiancé Cameron approached.
Wendy tried not to stiffen as he leaned down to peck her cheek. Cameron was such a guy. He was a former soldier with all the tattoos and muscles that stereotypically went with the gig. Now he was working construction. He was also in university part-time, though, which Wendy had to grudgingly respect.
It just seemed like such a weird match. Jane was serious and accomplished. Cameron drifted through the world getting by on looks and charm.
But really, all of that was neither here nor there. The only admissible fact was that Cameron made Jane happy. He treated her like a queen.
Wendy sighed as Cameron placed his hand on Jane’s butt and Jane shot him a big, besotted smile.
She needed to try to muster some genuine enthusiasm for this wedding. She couldn’t keep half-assing everything and forgetting shit or she was going to hurt Jane.
“Wendy, why don’t you go first with the photographer, being the maid of honor and all?” Jane said, turning away from her betrothed and letting her gaze travel up and down Wendy’s body. Wendy tried not to squirm—she’d done as instructed and shown up in jeans and a white top, but Jane’s silent appraisal still managed to make her feel like she’d made a mistake.
“What?” Wendy looked down at her white silk tunic. “Too dressy?” She probably should have just gone with a straight up T-shirt. But the only actual T-shirts she owned were from the races she’d run, so she’d resorted to the only white top in her wardrobe, which was something she generally wore under her work suits.
“It’s fine,” said Jane in a tone that suggested that it was not, in fact, fine.
“If you have a spare shirt, I can change.” Wendy knew Jane would try to pretend not to be too invested in the photo shoot, but she suspected her friend had a backup shirt or two stashed somewhere in the house.
“Well, I do have a couple.”
Bingo.
“Which I just got in case anyone spills orange juice or something on their shirt.”
Wendy refrained from pointing out that since she had surprised Jane with the orange juice, her logic was flawed. “Give me one. It’ll look better—more in tune with everyone else.”
Jane tilted her head. “You sure?” But she was already pulling a shirt out of an Old Navy bag sitting on the kitchen counter. “Elise is in the bathroom, I think. You can go change in my bedroom.”
Wendy glanced around. Everyone else had gone outside—Jane’s house was tiny, and it looked like the actual picture taking was happening in the backyard. “Nah, I’ll just change quickly here. Shield me.” She whipped off the offending garment. Darn it. The new shirt was inside out. “What size is this?” she asked as Jane turned around and put her arms out in an “airplane” stance in an attempt to provide privacy to Wendy’s presto-chango.
“Small. But if it’s too big we can pin—oh my Gaaaawd!” As Jane shrieked, not only did the airplane arms crash, but she ran away, leaving Wendy exposed, struggling to turn the new shirt right-side out. Wendy jammed her arms into the sleeves and lifted the shirt over her head, but it was still twisted so she got sort of stuck.
“Noah!” Jane yelled. “I can’t believe you came!”
Danger! Danger! Wendy’s body screamed, reacting in such a clichéd way, she may as well have been a cartoon. She could feel her jaw drop, her eyes widen. All she needed was for her cartoon-heart to literally hammer its way out of her chest.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not yet. Jane had just said he wasn’t coming until the week of the wedding.
She peeked over the edge of the shirt. There he was, tall and handsome and freaking perfect, framed in the doorway of Jane’s kitchen like it was no big deal.
She was not prepared for this. She had no armor. Hell, she didn’t even have a goddamned shirt on.
“Janie,” Noah said, his voice the same warm baritone it had always been.
There was a pause in which Wendy considered whether she could somehow run away. Her arms were caught in the T-shirt high above her head, so maybe he wouldn’t recognize her.
But no. Because then he said, “Hey, Wendy.”
Wendy had no protection against Noah Denning. She might as well have just handed him her renegade heart to him and said, Here’s my heart. Break it. Again.