Huge Deal - Lauren Layne Page 0,57

an official offer as an employee. I’m assuming he’s a temp now?”

“I think so?” Matt said, glancing at the other guys, who shrugged.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, grateful to have something to do.

She headed toward the door, not expecting Kennedy to say a damn word. And she was right. She was already through the doorway when she heard Ian’s low rumble. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing, man.”

Kate walked away without hearing Kennedy’s response, telling herself with each step that she didn’t care just how easily he’d tossed her aside.

21

Saturday, May 18

If there were a limit on how much time one could, or should, spend on Pinterest looking at penis paraphernalia, Kate hadn’t reached it yet. People were just so dang creative!

Lara had been pretty adamant about not wanting a traditional bachelorette party but had been coaxed into what Sabrina had called a “slutty slumber party” next weekend with the three of them and Lara’s friend Gabby. Sabrina was in charge of entertainment, Kate in charge of food.

She took a sip of her wine and scribbled bologna onto her shopping list. Not exactly her or Lara’s favorite food, but if they weren’t allowed to have a stripper, Kate was making damn sure they’d have phallic-shaped food.

She clicked on the next picture and nearly spit out her wine. “Oh, I’ve got to try this,” she muttered to herself.

Kate went to the kitchen, dug around for wooden skewers she had from a barbecue last summer, and found grapes in the fridge.

Less than a minute later, she held up her creation. “Perfect.”

The old-school phone by her front door rang, and she jumped. The awful thing rang only when someone was at the front door downstairs, and that happened only when it was a wrong number. That was the thing about having super-well-off friends—it almost always made more sense to meet at one of their places.

“Hello?”

Silence greeted her. Kate hung up with a shrug. Someone had probably figured out their mistake and—

The knock at the door made her jump for the second time, and she made a mental note that maybe she should invite people over more often, so she didn’t react like a total recluse when someone did stop by.

She checked her peephole, expecting Sabrina or Lara or a lost pizza guy, and saw . . .

Kennedy.

Even as her hand reached for the doorknob, she hesitated. The only other time she’d seen Kennedy Dawson standing on the other side of her door had been the morning she’d learned her dad died.

Kate opened the door, noting first that he was dressed in a dark-gray suit, even though it was early on a Saturday evening. He was carrying a garment bag in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other. Fancy champagne, the kind that came in a box, not the Prosecco that was her go-to.

Kate was suddenly uncomfortably aware that her staying-in ensemble of choice was not exactly hostess material. It was unseasonably hot for mid-May, so she was wearing ancient (and rather tiny) shorts and a tank top that she’d gotten at . . . Old Navy? H&M?

Couture, it was not.

“Um, hi?” she said.

He nodded. “Hello.”

She waited for more, but he said nothing. Kate rolled her eyes. “You can’t show up at your employee’s apartment on a weekend, unannounced, dressed like that, and simply say, ‘Hello.’”

“Dressed like what?” he asked, glancing down at his suit.

“Please tell me you own jeans.” It was an honest question. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him in jeans.

“Probably. Maybe. I’m not sure. Can I come in?”

“Sure,” she said, her curiosity getting the best of her. “What’s with the bag?”

He looked down at the black garment bag, then back at her. “It’s for you. But seeing you in those, I’m having second thoughts.”

Kate blinked rapidly. “You . . . brought me clothes? And what do you mean, ‘seeing me in those’? Seeing me in what?”

“Tiny tank top. Even smaller shorts.”

“It’s the weekend,” she snapped, braced for a fight. “Believe it or not, I don’t just prance around my apartment in a fancy dress.”

“Yeah, well, you might not like this, then,” he said, handing her the garment bag.

She took it reflexively, and he turned and went to the kitchen, setting the champagne on the counter and opening her cupboards.

She glanced at the bag, then at the man pulling two champagne flutes from her kitchen cabinet. They were the stemless kind, and cheap, but he didn’t seem to mind as he pulled the bottle of