complexions. It’s a shame it does nothing for yours, but majority rules. Speaking of your sister, you’ll be here for the rehearsal dinner?”
It wasn’t really a question, nor was it a request—never mind the fact that Alina had chosen their cousin Kayla as her maid-of-honor instead of her only sister. Not that Olivia wanted maid-of-honor privileges. Normally, she loved wedding planning, but Alina made Bridezilla look like a cute, innocent puppy, and that was before you factored an overbearing Eleanor into the equation. Still, it hurt like hell to be passed over for the role by someone who should’ve been her ride-or-die. Then again, she and Alina hadn’t had that type of sisterly relationship in a long time.
“Yes, Mother, I’ll be there.” Like I said I would, the past five times you asked.
“Good.”
While Eleanor rattled on about Alina’s wedding, Olivia tuned her out. Her mother hadn’t stopped talking about Alina’s engagement to Richard Barrons III since Richard popped the question with a four-carat Cartier last year. He was Eleanor’s dream son-in-law—a wealthy, generically handsome, Harvard-educated hedge fund manager from a good family whom she could brag about in her weekly ladies-who-lunch meetings.
Personally, Olivia thought Richard was a douchenozzle and total sleaze, but she wasn’t the one marrying the guy. At least her mother, sister, and future brother-in-law lived in Chicago, and she could keep her physical contact with them to a minimum.
“I have to go,” Olivia said when she saw Sammy step out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner. Bye!”
She hung up before Eleanor could rope her into another conversation she didn’t want to take part in. Talking with her mother always made her blood pressure spike.
“Sorry about that,” Sammy said as they exited the bakery. Afternoon sunshine spilled over them, warming Olivia’s chilled skin. “Things took longer than I expected.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s your job, and you’ve already been driving me around all morning.” Olivia climbed into the passenger seat. “Besides, I had your cupcakes to keep me company.”
A smile flitted over his face. “You okay with going back to the house right now? I can make lunch.”
“Yes, but I just need to grab my bag. I’m not hungry yet.” Olivia had left her overnight duffel at Sammy’s house. The rest of her belongings were stuffed in his trunk and backseat—they’d spent hours packing and getting rid of her furniture after her landlord left that morning. “I can call an Uber XL that’ll fit all my stuff and have them drive me to a hotel. I don’t want to inconvenience you any more than I already have.”
“It’s not an inconvenience.” Sammy stared straight ahead, his jaw flexing like he was holding a silent debate with himself. “Did you already book the hotel?”
“No. I’ll do it now.” Olivia pulled up the relevant tab on her phone. She’d already decided on a hotel and had been ready to check out before her mother called.
“Wait.”
She raised a questioning eyebrow, and Sammy delivered his next words so casually, so innocuously that she didn’t realize their import until much later.
“Instead of a hotel, why don’t you move into my place?”
Chapter Four
Sammy had a reputation for being a nice guy. He had an even temper, helped those in need, and rarely raised his voice.
But here was the truth: he wasn’t actually that nice. He did nice things, but he also got angry and petty and jealous and vindictive. Maybe he did so with less frequency than the general population, but Sammy was human and possessed all the flaws of one.
Case in point: Olivia’s apartment disaster.
A small part of him sympathized with her. A much larger part of him delighted in schadenfreude.
In all the time Sammy had known her, he’d never once seen Olivia be anything other than perfect. Perfect grades, perfect looks, perfect clothes, perfect job. Her life was a Pinterest board and Forbes 30 Under 30 list wrapped in an Excel spreadsheet and topped with a gold star sticker.
Call him an asshole, but seeing her freak out was so fucking satisfying. She hadn’t even freaked out when they broke up. She’d just stared at him for a long minute, turned, and walked out the door like the year they’d spent together had meant nothing.
Even now, the memory stung.
“That’s the last of the croissants.” Liam rinsed his hands in the sink. “Just in time. Store opens in—” He checked the clock. “Ten minutes, and according to Cordy, there’s already a line.”
“There’s always a line.” Cordelia breezed into the kitchen in time