The Neighbor Next Door - Cassandra Dee Page 0,34

posting on Instagram about proposing to Paula?

Vomit swirls in my stomach and a sour taste rises in the back of my throat. Galen never even posted a photo of us when we got engaged. He said it was because he could lose modelling jobs or some other vague excuse.

That obviously wasn’t the truth. Plus, I notice a familiar-looking arch of flowers, and swallow hard again. This photo was taken on the rooftop of Lombardi’s, a restaurant in Little Italy near where Galen lives. He took me there on our first date. It was our place, or so I thought.

Comments flood the feed, congratulating the happy couple. They say things along the lines of “Beautiful couple!” and “Congratulations on your big announcement!” Anger courses through me. I look at the diamond on my finger. Does it even mean anything?

I jump up from the couch, grab my purse, and head for the door. I need to get to the bottom of this. This is such a sick joke, and nausea makes me heady, but there’s no time to waste.

After all, this is a huge misunderstanding. And if it isn’t, I’ll have to kill Galen and my so-called friend, Paula.

* * *

To be continued …

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* * *

I pull the rearview mirror of my car towards myself, craning my neck so I can see the reflection of my face. A little swollen, but not too bad. Nothing that make-up can’t fix.

Because last night I allowed myself to cry and let the disappointment of my breakup with Ricky wash over me, with the resolution of getting up today and getting over it. My face was drawn and pale when I woke up, but with some carefully applied foundation and blush, I looked human and no longer like a corpse.

I’d had my coffee, listened to a cool new album, and dressed myself in my favorite dress and boots - and by now I was feeling pretty fabulous. A new beginning! Having slept on it, I feel like a bit of a fool letting a prick like Ricky upset me like that. Why should I cry over a rude asshole like that? Because he was good-looking?!

No, Fiona. No more, the voice in my head spoke. Ricky was your first hot guy, and if that's how hot guys are, he’ll be the last.

With an air of determination, I open the car door and walk towards the studio. Morning sunshine beats down on my hair, and I take a deep breath because today’s an important day: the president of Karmax Construction will be filming a TV spot at the studio, and it’s my job to do his make-up. It’s not like I’ve never had an assignment for a corporate advertising campaign before, but never one this important. After all, Karmax is huge, and its CEO is supposedly an incredibly charismatic billionaire. If I do a good job today, who knows what could happen afterwards? Maybe we’ll get more jobs. Maybe we’ll get word-of-mouth referrals.

But suddenly, I frown. Didn’t Ricky also work for a construction company? Not that he actually worked, worked. It seemed he frequently overslept and sometimes didn't even bother to show up. But at this point, who cares? It’s not my business. I push that loser out my mind and resolve never to waste another thought on him.

Inside the make-up room, I set up my kit and prepare a small table of refreshments for the President of Karmax, who I’m told will be ready for the make-up chair at 9 a.m. Sure enough, at 8:59 the door flies open with a bang. But this must be some joke because dressed impeccably in an expensive suit is Ricky! My coffee almost drops in shock and I snort, brown droplets shooting from my mouth and nose.

Ricky laughs, a deep, charming ripple that I’ve never heard issue from his lips before.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss at him. “Seriously. What?”

His face drops into a confused, but polite smile.

“I believe I have an appointment with you,” he says in a deep male voice. I’m rooted to the spot, staring at Ricky’s impossibly handsome face. But there’s something off. My eyes practically cross, trying to figure it out. He’s the same, but not the same in infinitesimally small ways. Ricky had a small scar over his

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