Blame it on the Champagne (Blame it on the Alcohol #1) - Fiona Cole Page 0,32
in charge of.
“What a dick,” Nova said.
“Ugh. Men,” Rae added at the same time.
“What if…” I started, scared to voice my biggest worry. “What if he finds out why I was really at the party. He was so focused on the fact that it was me, that he didn’t even consider to think why I was at an expensive charity event among the shipping elite. He’d probably fire me if he knew I lied about my name to get this job.”
“Nah,” Raelynn said, shrugging it off. “You’re still you. You still got the job with your own amazing credentials. You used your grandmother’s maiden name. It’s not like you created a whole new alias that didn’t even graduate high school.”
“I don’t know.”
“You stick to your plan,” she said. Nova nodded in the screen next to her, agreeing with Rae. “You push past this, show up every day, conquering that job, and you treat him like he doesn’t exist.”
“Kill him with kindness,” Nova said. “Show him how you kick ass all on your own.”
“He doesn’t exist, and his cock doesn’t exist…even though it was pretty big. How big again?” Rae asked, holding her hands apart like she was guessing the length.
“Raelynn!” Nova scolded.
“Are you sure you have to stop fucking him?” Raelynn asked, only partly joking.
“Oh my god,” I said, laughing this time. “Yes. We have to stop.”
A knock at the door pulled my attention away from the screen.
“Okay, guys. I have to go. Someone’s knocking. Thank you so much for talking me down and helping me through my crisis.”
“Anytime,” Nova said.
“Keep us updated,” Raelynn requested.
We said our goodbyes, and I closed my laptop, heading to the door.
I was a little shocked to find Camden on the other side. I opened it to find him in a Navy suit he probably wore to work that day, sans tie.
“Camden. Hey. What are you doing here?”
He pushed past me and turned right into the living room. “I’m glad you’re home.”
My brows rose high, and I looked side-to-side like someone else would be looking back with the same shock. I slowly closed the door and met him standing in the middle of my white living room.
“Yeah,” I said lamely, not sure where to go with this. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll just have some of this wine. Thank you.” He filled the empty glass about half full and drank, scrunching his nose.
“Sorry, it’s not a great bottle.”
“Yes, well. When we’re married, I’ll have to take you to a vineyard and teach you about better wine.”
I ignored the arrogant tone and instead chose to focus on how he wanted to travel together. “I look forward to it.”
He finished the wine in three swallows and set the glass down before digging in his breast pocket. His smile tipped his lips slowly, and the two measured steps closer had my shoulders pulling back. He produced a white envelope, and something about the glint in his eyes warned me that I should just shove it back and say no thanks.
Instead, I tugged the small rectangle from his grip and barely breathed, trying my best to keep my unease hidden.
“Open it.”
With a swallow, I slid my thumb under the fold and tugged out the thick cream cardstock.
My brows furrowed as I read our names on the invitation, confused until one word caught my eye. Every ounce of blood dropped down to my feet. A tingling buzz started in my head and spread like ice through my veins.
“What is this?” I breathed the question.
“An invitation to our engagement party, silly.”
Engagement party.
Engagement. Party.
Engagement.
No matter how many times I read the words, they didn’t change.
“It’s in a little over a month.”
“I wanted to do it sooner, but planning required more time.”
More time? This was not the more time I thought I’d have. I thought I had a year. I thought I had at least six months. I thought I had…more.
Irritation simmered in my veins, heating up the ice that had frozen me stiff. “You didn’t even talk to me.”
“It fits with our schedule. There was no need to discuss it.”
“No,” I said, dropping the card at my side and pulling my shoulders back. “It fits with your schedule. You never asked me about mine.”
He laughed softly. “You don’t have a schedule. You don’t work, and I spoke to your father about any charities you may be working on, and there was nothing. Maybe you had a playdate with your little friends, but that can be changed. Your schedule is my