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Jack understands why Renee is annoyed with him for forgetting lunch but he isn’t sure why the cake tasting, while it appears to be a valid excuse, seemed to be upsetting her on its own.
Until she asks him about the Maid of Honor.
“And what is she like?”
“She’s a technical writer and a raving caffeine addict,” he said, grinning.
Renee’s smile dropped to quarter power. “Does she look like Kirsten?” Renee had met Kirsten at a dinner hosted by one of the agencies’ clients a few months ago. They’d been instantly friendly in the way that beautiful women were, when they weren’t competing for the same man’s attention.
“Not much,” he said, “except maybe the eyes.” He hadn’t thought about taking a picture of Viv at the time, but he wished he’d captured her expression when she’d faced down Bibi.
I originally thought the image was Viv, but now I’m thinking it’s the model-formerly-known-as-Renee-but-who-doesn’t-have-a-new-name-yet . . .
I temporarily misplaced all my handwritten Anti-Cupid notes yesterday—about six chapters-worth of looseleaf sheets, envelopes, and scraps, ’cause that’s how I roll—but after a twenty minute search, during which I convinced myself I’d have to dumpster dive to find them, I eventually discovered the bundle in the Very Safe Place I’d tucked it while I was working on something else.
Perhaps it would be better if I stored this stuff in the middle of the room under a large traffic cone with a bright orange flag stuck on top. Or stuck a sticky note treasure map on my monitor.
Or used my file cabinet . . .